


in the absence of time

by Anonymous



Series: in a blink of eternity [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Apocalypse, Demons, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Vampires, Werewolves, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 116,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24695281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Lucifer is free.The clock is ticking.Facing down the barrel of the Apocalypse, the Interpol team is on the race to find and protect the antichrist before the fallen archangel can possess him. But even without Lucifer having a physical presence on earth, they are witnessing their world falling into chaos.Yuuri Katsuki is running out of time to find a second option. No matter how far he goes, no matter where he looks, no matter who he asks, the answer always seems to lie at home with Victor.Tick, tock.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Series: in a blink of eternity [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759261
Comments: 149
Kudos: 254
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Samuel I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rose by Bette Midler

“We can rent a hotel,” says Phichit in concern. He looks up and down, eyes zooming in to view Yuuri’s bandaged hands as he analyzes the witch's state of mind. “Or you can stay with me.” 

“No, I’m going home,” Yuuri insists. 

“But your apartment is ruined. There is yellow tape over the door, and there is a nasty spell all over the walls, which will take weeks to get rid of. And that’s not even mentioning the sigil in your dining room,” the other witch points out. 

“Japan.” A pause. “I always have a home in Japan.” 

Blue and red lights flashing across his face, Phichit nods in relief. “Okay. Do you need any help booking you a portal?” He backs off at the very sight of Yuuri’s unamused face. “Yuuri, I’m relieved that you don’t have a concussion, but I want you to be safe.”

The witch pauses at that, softening and finally focusing on Phichit. “I’m sorry.” He pauses, switching to a quieter voice, "I'm so terribly distracted, but Phichit, I will get back to you. I have to ask the unofficial suspect a few questions." 

"That dude. In a black hood?" 

"We don't have any other unofficial suspects," the witch points out in a rush. "Anyway, I need some questions answered, I'll be back at work tomorrow to fill in the incident reports, and I promise I will be okay." 

Phichit nods, still looking quite worried. "Alright, but if anything bad happens or if you showed up dead, I'm haunting your ghost." 

Yuuri snorts. What a turn of phrase. "Alright, I'm going to text Victor. See you later." He waves goodbye and moves away, a good distance from the church. Then he winces at his bandages, glancing over his hands. Breaking the pew with his back didn't do much, not with his coat protecting him. He has been thrown by vampires one too many times to not sew in a protective spell. 

He types, _can we talk?_

Then he quickly backspaces. That is not a conversation he wants over text messages, even though he desperately wants the answer. It needs more finesse. It needs to be asked in person. So he starts typing again. 

_Can you pick me up?_

Victor texts him back in less than a minute. _Yes. What address are you at?_

The second Yuuri answers, he feels a tap at his shoulder. Spinning around, he finds the alpha standing there behind him, dressed on casual wears of a grey hoodie and matching sweatpants. Faintly, Yuuri mutters in surprise, "You were wearing a suit. Earlier." 

It's true. He was wearing a nice black suit that was all sharp lines, a dark battle suit worn by professional lawyers or prosecutors. Like how Minako was dressed earlier. 

"Yes," Victor acknowledges. "I don't typically wear that, but talking to Lucifer. . . One tends to want to look their best." He offers a hand out to Yuuri. "To Japan now?" 

The witch nods. "Please." He has no desire to interrogate Victor on the dark streets of Florence, Italy. So he grasps the alpha's hands, his heart skipping a beat, as if he's on his first date ever. 

They walk a mere two meters before the scenery quickly changes. A sudden spray of sea salt startles the witch. 

It's not until he's curled up in borrowed pajamas of the alpha's bed does he dare ask his questions, seeking to further understand the alpha's thoughts. He starts with a soft question, gauging the alpha's expression in the soft glow of the lamps. 

"Do you need sleep? Does an angel need to sleep?" 

"No," replies Victor. He casually slips off his sweatshirt, leaving himself shirtless. His muscular biceps flex, which distracts the other man for a second. "If you want, Yuuri, I don't have to be here." 

The witch pauses, unable to find the correct words to say. He longs to question more about an angel's powers, but there is something he needs more. He needs something else. He needs. . . 

"No," he voices. "Stay." He pauses, finding relief in the alpha's azure eyes. In a smaller voice, he adds, "I just have so many questions." 

"I know. I'll answer them." Victor shuffles closer, hovering as if afraid Yuuri may bite any second. He huffs in surprise when the witch pulls him down, flipping the covers and sheets over them. 

Yuuri's arms wrap around the alpha, his heart slowing as he listens to every steady breath. Victor is soft and warm under his touch. He can't pretend this is just another suspect he must investigate for Interpol. This is Victor, an alpha he has bonded with, an alpha who has bonded with a handful versions of Yuuri. Though his mind holds few memories of Victor, his body knows Victor incredibly well. He's at peace like never before, breathing in the alpha's calm scent as he's tempted into sleep. 

"There is so much going on in my mind," Yuuri whispers, eyes watching the faint shadows cast by the lamps across Victor's face. 

"Start with one," he suggests. "We can get through them all eventually." 

"Well. . ." Yuuri pauses, thinking for a moment. "So if you don't need sleep, what do you do?" 

Victor chuckles. "I said I don't need sleep. I did not say I can't sleep. Sleeping is nice, especially when it's with you." 

Yuuri throws a leg over the other man. "Is this okay?"

"It's perfect." Victor exhales, his hands shuffling unsure towards the witch. Then he pulls back. "May I hold you?" 

Yuuri blinks in surprise. "You had to ask?" 

The other man's mouth opens. Then closes. Gaping like a fish out of the water. "I. . . I had to ask. I don't know how much you remember about us. You were skittish in one life early on in our relationship." 

The witch raises an eyebrow. 

Victor admits, "I may have acted too aggressively in my advances. I showed up naked on our wedding night and then you kicked me out of our bed." He flushes, but adds nothing else to the story. 

Yuuri puts his face in his palm. Yes, he can imagine this happening. He can imagine himself turning down the hottest man he has ever seen, who also happens to be his husband, and sending him out of the bedroom. But then he glances back up and narrows his eyes. "Spill it."

"Huh?" 

"There was something else you were going to say." 

Victor glances upwards, staring at the ceiling. "I did not know that the proper procedure at the time was to wear a kimono during our wedding night." 

Yuuri snorts. "So in the past, I was frightened by your dick?" 

"I don't know about that." He is still looking up at the ceiling. 

"Victor," Yuuri collectively says. "I assume you were perhaps my first experience in that life. Knowing my sister, I would have been given the worst sex talk ever in the history of mankind. No reassurances from Mom would ever convince me otherwise of what sex really was like. You coming at me naked would have only caused me to toss you out in a panic." 

"Mmm." A pause. "To be fair, you were quite beautiful while tossing me out of the bedroom." 

Yuuri casually raises an eyebrow. He highly doubts that, but he's not going to argue about it with Victor. He has bigger fish to fry. So he tries a hardball question. "Why did you come? Why did you come into the church to where Lucifer was rising?" 

"Because of you." 

"But why?" 

"You're my mate," Victor says softly, his eyes glancing to the witch's face. "I already lost you once to one archangel. I'm not going to lose you to another, if the choice is in my hands." 

Does this mean he defied death? Because of Victor's actions? 

"Was my name on your list?" 

"No," the angel answers. "But your name wasn't on my list when Selaphiel killed you nine hundred years ago. So when I felt Lucifer rising into this world, I had to make sure you got out of there alive before he smited you." 

"But he doesn't have a physical form," the witch points out, confused. Chris told Interpol, specifically Phichit, that as long as Lucifer didn't have the antichrist to possess, he can't lay a finger on this world. 

Victor nods. "Not yet. But he can do a lot of damage, if he wants to. Comet showers, maybe a few asteroids land on people's heads. Maybe a very large one can cause extinction of the human race. Or a hurricane that will make the Class 5s in the history books look like a tiny wind breeze. Or smite someone. He can do a lot of things if he puts his mind to it." 

"But will he?" 

The angel shrugs. "I haven't seen Lucifer in eons before tonight. I imagine his goal is to find the antichrist though. Then watch part of the world burn under his touch before fighting Michael. Torture a few million humans." He pauses. "But. I don't know what is on his mind. An eternity in the pits of Hell can change a lot of people." 

Yuuri absorbs this. They really have to find the antichrist and hide him or else he will gain a foothold in this world. But. . . 

The witch raises his head. "You're fine with this? The annihilation of an entire world? Torture? Nameless destruction?" 

"Yuuri," Victor speaks, his words eerily calm. "This is the final chapter. It does not get any better after this." 

The witch knows he should stop pushing, perhaps stop trying to gain more information, stop hoping his luck stays good and plentiful. He asks anyway, for humanity and whatever hope remains with them, "If you try to stop the Apocalypse, if you just gave an effort and cared for this world, what can you do to save it?" 

The Angel of Death stays silent for a moment. Then he answers conclusively, "I don't think I can do anything to stop it. Even if I tried." 

Yuuri sighs. It's not the answer he's been looking for, but at least, Victor is talking to him. He holds Victor even tighter, feeling the alpha's fingers rest gently on his side. He's warm and whole despite the lack of answers. Maybe Victor truly doesn't know a way to stop the Apocalypse or maybe he does. It doesn't mean Victor is his only option. 

So he blinks slowly, mumbling under his breath. 

"What did you say?" 

Yuuri pulls his mouth away from Victor's shoulder. More clearly, he repeats himself, "Can you turn the lights off?" 

"Of course." 

So he holds the alpha tight and breathes in his familiar scent, the scent of rich dark chocolate and a touch of iron. And he concentrates, wondering what can be done to stop the Apocalypse. His mind flicks back to what Chris said just a few hours ago. 

Find the antichrist. 

Yes. That is possible. Sixteen years old. Russian. Born in Florida and went missing possibly at birth. Abaddon watched over the fake version of him for years. It's not likely he was swapped under her care, which leaves the hospital itself. 

But Yuuri is a witch. He does not need to go through witnesses for a disappearance that possibly happened sixteen years ago. He does not need to dig through hospital records, and he does not have to beg for old surveillance footage, assuming there are even any. 

A spell, he realizes. To track down the antichrist. It has to be biological. Yulia Plisetsky, after her death, was cremated in the United States. Her ashes were sent to her father, Nikolai Plisetsky, who died years ago. Most of Nikolai Plisetsky’s personal effects were auctioned off, because Mr. Petrovich did not bother to claim them on behalf of his son. 

The antichrist can't be dead. Demons would only resurrect him if he was. So he is somewhere in the world, possibly vulnerable to the demons. 

Yuuri's dreamscape crawls up. 

He finds himself in Seoul, specifically the university he used to work at on behalf of Interpol. Research. Lots of research, mostly surrounding old unused spells and other such things. Nearly forgotten by time. 

He sits at an oval table, surrounded by fellow witches and researchers. A presentation to present their findings. Yuuri slept through dozens of these things, because very few spells and rituals being researched were mentally stimulating. And that is including the ones he was analyzing. 

The lead professor, head of the occult department, turns to a sullen-faced witch on her right. "Ms. Park? Please present what you have found," she says, her Korean soft and nearly lulling Yuuri to sleep. 

"Yes, Professor," nods the witch. She clears her throat, but makes no motion to stand up. "A grimoire from rural China brought interesting rituals we have not considered before. I have yet to test it out on any subjects, because it requires the deceased body of a male ancestor. This particular ritual can find the living direct descendants." 

"Any other rituals?" 

"No, unfortunately not anything interesting. The rest are the standard bread and butter of witchcraft. Weather spells, mild curses, a few pain-relieving medications." 

The professor pushes her glasses up. "Alright, pass it forward to the Dean. Perhaps you can get your test subjects and some additional funding to determine if the ritual is genuine." 

"Yes, professor." 

Then the scene changes. 

He can't see anything. Nor feel anything. But he can hear a voice, as if he's listening through water. It's a familiar situation, one he has felt before. 

Then the words ring clear. 

"Hello, Yuuri Katsuki," greets a stoic voice in Enochian, his tone grating and deep. "You don't remember me. I don't think you do. Not with the way the reincarnation spell is wrapped around your soul, not with the way Azrael modified the spell." 

He pauses, as if surprised to find a lack of response from a Yuuri dead to the world. Then he sighs, his words flowing once again. 

"Over eight hundred years ago, maybe you remembered that moment, maybe you don't. . ." A pause. "Death like that leaves a scar on a soul, and yours was especially violent when you threw every bit of your magic at me. You would have not survived that moment, even if you managed to kill me." 

Yuuri hears a pause once again. Perhaps he has left? But no, he speaks again. 

"Over eight hundred years ago, I killed you. I burnt out your eyes, and I ensured that no child will come out of your union with Azrael, your beloved who you call Victor. Orders are orders, and Michael's decree must be upheld. Do I believe we must prevent Nephilims? I don't know, for I do not understand their full power. One Nephilim, Lucifer's son who was named a rather poor name that deserves not to be mentioned, managed to slaughter dozens of my brothers. Angels. Perhaps they can be as powerful as an angel or perhaps not. We don't know, because we have locked away all the Nephilims, guilty or innocent, into Purgatory." 

The voice sighs, wallowing in silence. 

"I came here, this place you can't see but has been your home for hundreds of years. I came here today to apologize." 

Silence again. 

Is he expecting Yuuri to say something? This version of Yuuri is dead, after all. 

"And maybe I don't have pure desire to atone to you today." He corrects himself, "No, not completely. You won't notice until it's too late, but the end of times draw closer. Soon, your world will end and every single living being shall die. Your beloved, without a doubt, counts down every second until then." 

He sighs once more, as if every breath was labored and taxed. 

"It will work. What I told him is true. The Apocalypse will break and corrupt your sister's reincarnation spell. Your connection to this world will be severed. Permanently. But there is one other thing. Your beloved's curse. It weighs on my chest. A murderer's brand. He won't let me forget what I've done. Not anytime soon. For the years I've taken away from you, he would ensure I will pay for it throughout eternity. I can feel the curse's time is nearing. Perhaps my heart will break when I see my brothers die in battle against Lucifer's forces." 

A pause. 

"I see dreams of people at times. Humans, vampires, witches, past and future kings. I offer you your beloved's hope." He whispers, as if unwilling to let anyone but Yuuri listen, "He dreams of raising a child, girl or boy, with you. He wants to see then grow up, he wants to take them to school. He wants to watch you hold them, he wants the best features of both of you to be in them. He hopes they have your eyes and your hair and your heart. I know he has denied himself this hope, squashed it down until only an unplanted seed remains in the bitterly cold depths of his heart, because he knows that as soon as it becomes reality, Michael and the angels will come down from Heaven to destroy you and your children. If they put their minds to it, then they might even break your sister's reincarnation spell and send you into Purgatory, a land where few dare to venture." 

His voice quiets. 

"I regret killing you by revealing my true form to you. Perhaps, I could have convinced your beloved to have protected you by being cautious. There are a lot of things that could have happened, and I wished your beloved could turn back the clock and make it right, consequences be damned. But we live with our choices now. So the last thing I want to say to you today is this: I hope you get your happy ending." 

His voice grows faint. 

Selaphiel, the archangel of hope, presses a warm finger to Yuuri's forehead. "So blessed be." 

As Yuuri's eyes open to the sunlight streaming in from the window, he can still feel the archangel's finger pressed against his head. He has to palm his forehead to make sure it's not actually there. 

"Good morning," greets Victor, smiling as he comes in with a breakfast tray. "It's seven o'clock in Spain right now." 

"Seven o'clock?" Yuuri screeches. There is absolutely no way he will reach France at eight o'clock in time for work. Yakov is going to kill him, and Human Resources will write a note. 

"Relax, Yuuri," the alpha says, placing the tray on the bed. "I will drop you off on the way to my work." 

"Right." The witch nods, slowly relaxing. "Sorry," he adds, flushing. 

"It's okay. You're not used to me dropping you off at places." Victor holds out a cup of hot tea. "Something for you to drink?" 

"Victor." 

"Yes, Yuuri?" 

"I'm not in heat or pre-heat. I'm eating at a table after I brush my teeth," he tells him firmly. "I have the worst breath known to mankind, enough to rival dragons who haven't brushed their teeth in eons." 

The alpha flashes a smile, the tea cup back on the tray. "Then I'll be in the kitchen." Picking up the tray, he whistles as he leaves the bedroom. 

Yuuri rubs his eyes, his hand reaching for his glasses. His dream hasn't quite settled down, and he's trying to understand the pieces that is already fading away, slipping through his fingers. A snap of his finger sends the dream journal flying into his hands. He needs to write all of this down before he can forget. 

The first part. 

That's easy. He vaguely remembers that conference meeting. All the conferences blend together in his memory, but that one. The ritual involving the deceased body to track down the descendants. A male deceased, to be precise. Nikolai Plisetsky is buried somewhere in Russia. If they can cast the ritual, then Interpol can theoretically find his grandson, the antichrist. It seems fairly straightforward. 

At the end of the paragraph, Yuuri writes a brief note to remind himself to pull old research papers from Korea University. His coworker might have done a study on the ritual. 

Then there's the second part of his dream. 

Selaphiel. 

Now, Yuuri hasn't quite gotten all his thoughts gathered in regards to Selaphiel, who was under orders when he brutally killed a past version of Yuuri. He does, however, have some opinions on Victor, who decided to strike back in retribution while knowing Yuuri will someday be born again like a phoenix of the legends. Victor shouldn't have done that, in his most honest and truthful opinion. To cause a painful heartbreak is something that can be worse than death. But. What does he know about relations and the society of angels? 

Nonetheless, he replays the dream mentally. Selaphiel spoke a lot, though very little of it is useful to preventing the Apocalypse. An apology, he said. But not coming out of a completely pure heart. He scribbles down some details, unsure of any importance in Selaphiel's words. 

"Yuuri, breakfast is ready!" Victor calls out, his voice traveling easily through the paper walls. "No, Makka. We eat together. Don't be rude! Yes, go get your daddy! He's slow this morning!" 

Yuuri snorts, but he sends the journal flying back to his coat. Pushing himself off the bed, he begins his morning routine. It's strange to suddenly have someone else involved in his routine. It's strange to have Makkachin whining as if starving for years by his feet. 

Makkachin's tail pounds the floor, her tongue sticking out eagerly when she sees Yuuri rinse his mouth. She's out the bathroom door before Yuuri can finish wiping his face dry. 

"Makkachin!" He laughs when he sees the hellhound chowing down her bowl with gusto. She licks up bits and pieces of raw meat, her tail wagging happily. 

"Makka has been asking for the beef. You don't mind?" Dressed in a white apron over hospital scrubs, Victor lifts a frying pan full of fried beef mixed with green onions. "Want any before I give the rest to her?" 

"Makka deserves all of it." 

Victor laughs, kneeling down to scrap the beef into her bowl. "Careful. She's getting too spoiled." He affectionately ruffles through her fur, frowning at something he finds in her hair. "Makka," Victor calmly says. "Did you go swimming again this morning?" 

Makkachin whines. 

"Makka! I just shampooed you yesterday." He dramatically sighs. "I hope you didn't leave sand on the rugs again." He picks up the frying pan and disappears into the kitchen. 

Makkachin turns her head at the witch, silently begging, her bowl briefly forgotten. 

Yuuri puts a finger to his lips. Then he stands up from the table and cast a quick cleaning spell. He's not sure if it will keep the dust out, but it should erase Makkachin's sandy footprints. The poodle shakes sand off, the magic carrying the fine grains out through the window screen. 

Makkachin barks, returning to her bowl. She does not look surprised at all. 

"Makka." Yuuri's eyes narrow with suspicion at the chocolate-brown poodle, who is now pretending nothing has happened as she swallows down her breakfast. "Have I helped you before?" 

"Helped what?" Victor asks, carrying a big bowl of white rice in his hands. He plants it in the center of the table with a flourish. "Hey, sit down, Yuuri." 

Yuuri does, returning to the floor. He makes no verbal comment about how he suspects the hellhound of abusing the witch's amnesia for her own benefit. She's not causing any harm. Just getting herself out of trouble. He will not consider the moral implications on Makkachin’s behalf, because it’s not as if she does know what morals even are. The human concept of morals, that is. 

The witch serves the rice, filling the bowls. Casually, he inquires, "Do you know if it's going to be a busy day at the hospital?" 

"I can sometimes tell, because the names appear on my hands in my true form," he explains. He picks up a pair of chopsticks, placing a portion of fried pork into Yuuri's bowl before doing the same to his own. "Today, there are over a hundred people dying in Madrid alone." 

The witch's eyes widen. "A hundred?" 

"Old age, lung cancer, car accidents, murders," Victor says. "Yes, in Madrid, Spain. It's difficult to see whether or not they will be arriving in the hospital I work out." 

Yuuri nods, absorbing the fact. 

"My other job is busy. Six thousand souls in the United States to pick up, two thousand in Mexico, five hundred in Australia, the list goes on. China is a hotspot. So is India." 

"They have the biggest population," Yuuri points out. He can't help but note Victor's matter-of-fact tone. It's just another day to him, and every death has truly become another number to him. 

"And some other problems. Air pollution, poor water quality, poorly maintained traffic laws. If I didn't have reapers helping me, I would be terribly behind." Victor swiftly changes the subject, upon realizing the dark topic. "So how is your work?" 

"I don't know," Yuuri admits, putting down his chopsticks. "One case is closed but not the other. I imagine the taskforce will remain for the time being." 

Victor nods. "Well. Good luck then. In your case." 

"Thank you" is what he replies back with. He doesn't know what else to say. Victor is technically not supposed to be privy to the case's details. If there is even a case left, especially with Astaroth being dead and the perpetrator of the previous murders killed with him. Victor's scythe killed the person hosting the Duke of Hell, but scientific evidence was not able to prove this according to Seung-gil's text to the group chat. 

_According to photographs and descriptions of autopsies of formerly possessed corpses killed by the sword of Baraqiel, the way the scythe killed our perpetrator is not similar at all. The sword of Baraqiel, a legendary blade that is said to be once owned by an angel, instantly slews any demon it cuts, but it leaves the body intact with the eyes burnt. It will leave a prominent scar to the wound it creates._

_I am unable to determine if the weapon was a scythe. The ash that remained of Astaroth has a few pieces of bone and no genetic material. There are faint traces of the polymers he wore. It will be difficult to ascertain an identity for the host._

_It was most definitely a supernatural weapon. In my years of experience, I have never seen or heard of a weapon that can reduce a body to ash._

It's the most Yuuri has ever seen the vampire text. 

By the time he arrives in Lyon, France, it's ten minutes before eight o'clock and he is hurrying through the security checkpoint. Victor has promised to pick him up at five o'clock today; the alpha has reduced hours at work to match Yuuri's work hours. It's mildly bizarre how Yuuri, a notable workaholic who gets regular emails from Human Resources about taking vacation time and preventing work burnout, is not working as much as his mate, whose emergency room surgeon gig is not even his primary job. 

Mate. He's not used to that thought either. 

He doesn't have enough time to think about it further when he runs across Phichit in the halls on the way to the elevators. "Hey, Phichit," he says, greeting the other witch. 

Arthur seems to be even fatter than before in his hands, now occupying one and a half spaces of the witch's palms. 

"Morning, Arthur," Yuuri adds politely, looking af the hamster. "Yakov calling a meeting in thirty-ish minutes." 

"Probably to yell at us for not filing paperwork," Phichit muses, locking in step with Yuuri. "We have a backlog of forms we haven't worked through yet." 

Silence as they briskly walk the halls. 

"You're right." 

"Of course, I am," instantly replies the witch. "Wait. On what thing, though?" 

"Reincarnation." A pause. "You're right." 

Very few people have seen a professional witch working at Interpol being incredibly childish. They brush off the hamsters as a magic thing, but this, the wildish dancing reminiscent of ancient witches dancing around fires naked, sends Interpol agents stopping in their steps and watching as Phichit shamelessly makes a victory leap into the air and ridiculous peace signs. He was not taught how to dance, and it shows. Twerking in people's faces at nightclubs does not count as experience in Phichit's dance cred, in Yuuri's opinion. No matter how much the other witch says otherwise. 

He spins around and finds their boss with an arched eyebrow towering over him. Phichit straightens instantly, pretending nothing is amiss. "Good morning, sir." 

"Meeting in thirty minutes. Don't be late" is all Yakov Feltsman utters before strolling back into the awaiting elevator, tactfully retreating. 

Once the door closes, Phichit pumps his fist up. "But I was right!" 

"I think Yakov Feltsman heard too," dryly points out Yuuri. "And yes, you were right. It was, but it's complicated." The witch thumbs the up button, watching the elevator numbers light up slowly. "Something that should be said in my office." 

"Ah, right."

It takes thirty seconds for another elevator to arrive. Yuuri nods in greetings at the vaguely familiar Interpol agent in the elevator, but does not bother to chat. He hits the button for his floor, squeezing in between other employees. Phichit does the same, shuffling awkwardly around people. Arthur squeaks. 

Upon following the other witch into his temporary office, he closes the door. Then he walks around the desk to sit, eyeing the larger pile of papers. "Did Georgi decide to give me some more cases to look over?" Yuuri wonders aloud. "Memos?" 

"More like forms for you to fill out. I got the same thing," Phichit says, plopping down in the chair. Arthur pokes out of his hands, squeaking away. "So what convinced you that it was reincarnation rather than some ancestors of you?" 

"Victor convinced me," Yuuri says, hedging. Technically, it was Morooka, but Victor backed up his realizations and helped break through the constant denials that plagued him. He quickly adds, "I didn't tell you the full story." 

"There is a story to tell?" A pause. "Yuuri, you got to be kidding me. We've been running around for weeks without knowing much of anything?" 

"It's not like that. It's not information that is truly pertaining to the case. . ." Yuuri's voice trails off at the sight of the other witch's raised eyebrow. 

"We have profiled Morooka as a death-avoiding, serial killing witch. That guy killed your mother and then held you hostage, probably knowing that you were going on vacation for your heat," Phichit points out, the clever investigator side of him showing. "You were targeted. He's not talking why, so all we have is your notes, which doesn't suggest why he came after you. Your excuse of a spell Mari cast doesn't exactly satisfy any questions. Unless we take in account of. . ." Phichit raises his eyebrows, his hand gesturing. 

"Because of reincarnation," Yuuri fills in, powering up his desktop computer. 

"So your reincarnation is relevant to at least one case," the other witch concludes, tilting his head in silent judgment. It's obvious to Yuuri that he has already figured it out with the witch needing to tell him. 

"You can't tell anyone, and I can't write it down anywhere in the Interpol reports. I don't need hundreds of people like Morooka coming out of the shadows looking for my family and I to study us like rats in a lab. Victor apparently prevented all other reincarnation spells, so no one else is able to do what Mari did." 

Phichit taps his fingers on his desk. In a softer voice, he says, "You discovered all of this just last week?" A pause. "Yuuri, I know you’ve been working on your own for like decades, but you are part of a team right now. You’re not alone. We are here to help, and it would be nice if you say something every once in a while in the group chat. Don’t be like Yakov. At least, Yakov has Georgi to write him condensed notes about what happens in the group chat.” 

Yuuri fills in his password and account ID number. He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the subject. “Can we get back to the case? The case of finding the antichrist?” 

The other witch sighs. “Okay, but I’m letting you know that I’m here for you. I’m not going to bring up anything, but don’t hold everything inside and keep things bottled up. Talk to someone. Mari, your father, or even Victor. You’re not alone. The last week or so was insane, and it was like every day had something new. Don’t be afraid about taking a breather.” 

The witch pauses in his typing, staring at the blank request form for old Korea University research papers. “I. . .” A pause as he realizes Phichit is speaking to him out of concern, out of their friendship. His mother has passed not even a month ago, he was attacked by a witch, he discovered his family has an ancient reincarnation spell wrapped around the four of them, and he was mated to Victor. To anyone looking in Yuuri's life, it does seem like he needs to slow down and pause for a little while. “Thank you, Phichit.” 

The other witch nods, standing up, his words spoken and heard. “I got to feed Oliver some meds. I’ll see you at the meeting.” 

“Okay, Phichit.” Yuuri waves. Then he returns to his computer screen once the door closes. As he fills in the required information, he thinks about what the other witch has said. He supposes his behavior has been erratic, especially with him, who previously had no interest in potential mates, has taken on a mate, even if the mate has technically been his old mate throughout the last hundreds or so years. Maybe he should have waited, let Victor properly court him before biting him, but what’s done is done. Now Yuuri will lie in the bed he made and sleep. 

But he doesn’t regret it. No, there is a fierce, proud part that purrs inside him every time Victor’s collar dips, showing off the bond mark at the base of the alpha’s neck. He wants to lounge on Victor’s lap, leave his stuff and belongings in Victor’s home, marking it so thoroughly that the alpha will never forget him, even if Yuuri does. 

* * *

Mila brings pizza, cheerfully breaking the official rule of never having food in the conference room. She’s unfazed by the glaring look Yakov passes her and the further deepening scowl he sports when she promises that not a single crumb will be on the floor. She whips out a flask of blood from her pocket, after unloading the boxes on the small table in the corner of the conference room. She has also brought an edible vampire-safe pizza infused with blood instead of tomato sauce to share with Seung-gil and Georgi, placing the specialized pizza box away from the cardboard pizza boxes. 

Yakov brings the meeting to order. "Seung-gil has completed the autopsy for the demon Astaroth. Sara has combed the crime scene in Italy and is unable to find the body of Lilith. I have received the incident report from Phichit but not from Yuuri." 

That's his cue. 

"It's on my to-do list. I will have it finished by the end of the day," Yuuri promises. It's a long, tedious form to fill out, and he is not looking forward to filling any of it out. 

Yakov moves on. He squints at a sheet of paper he brings to his face, and then exasperated, he turns to look at Mila and barks, “I thought I have requested you to stop referring to this case as 'the Apocalypse case.'” 

"Oops." Mila doesn't look apologetic at all. She flashes a carefree grin and loudly slurps from her flask. 

Yakov reshuffles his papers and squints again. "According to Phichit's contact, the demons are now under control of a powerful entity named Lucifer in Hell and is seeking to break a few high-powered demons free from maximum security prisons," Yakov says, flicking to another page in his notes. 

Phichit's contact would be Chris. 

"Phichit believes the way to stop these demons from affecting earth is to find the one they believe to be the antichrist. . ." Yakov's voice trails off. "This is what the demons believe, Chulanont?" 

"Yes, sir," Phichit nods. "They believe they can bring about the Apocalypse if they find the biological son of Yulia Plisetsky and Sergei Petrovich." 

"How do the demons know the child in Mr. Petrovich's protection is not his biological son?" 

"My contact said the child did not bleed in the proper color of black for him to be the antichrist," the other witch says, not even twitching to the slight tremble of unhappiness and mild rage in Yakov's eyelids. 

Yakov clears his throat. "Alleged antichrist," he tensely corrects. 

"Alleged antichrist," Phichit repeats, sounding like a broken robot on the verge of giggling at any moment. 

Their boss waves him off, his eyes twitching even harder. "Now, I also have Yuuri, who believes he can find the alleged antichrist through magic by using a ritual involving the dead body of a Nikolai Plisetsky, who is buried in St. Petersburg, Russia." 

"Yes, sir." A pause. Yuuri adds in, "I have tracked down the academic report on that particular ritual. It was first done in 1992, but it wasn't until 2007 when the academic study was backed by DNA testing." 

"Do you need legal support to exhume Plisetsky's body?" 

"No, only the church's permission," Mila answers, who has actually talked to the priest in question once Yuuri's translation spell reached its limits. It was unable to translate innuendos. "They're asking for ten thousand rubles." 

Yakov nods. "Alright, then I suppose at least two of you must go to Russia. Guang Hong, what is the status on the list of demons?" 

"Three found and eliminated. I have found nine, and I will be tracking them for now. Leo and I are still working on the rest of the list." Guang Hong fidgets, his partner out in the field. In the interest of staving off increased demonic activity, the hunters have been given the task of hunting down known demons and eliminating. 

Yuuri tries not to yawn. It's going to be a long morning.

* * *

"You know, I don't get to travel through the portals that much," Mila muses, driving a rented car through St. Petersburg with shovels and rope in the trunk. "It's lucky the clouds are out. I hate to have a sunburn." 

The witch nods, sipping his coffee in the navigator seat. He vaguely feels as if they're about to murder somebody, even though they are actually going to take advantage of a priest and the lack of police concern surrounding exhumation laws for a little over a hundred euros. Of course, the priest may know very well they're taking advantage, but he doesn't care. Rubles are rubles. And no one really cares about a dead body with no family. 

Mila carefully parks the rental car in the back of the church, following the GPS's directions. She whistles cheerfully as leather boots step out of the car. "You want to get the shovels now or later?" 

"Later. Let's talk to the priest first," the witch says. 

"Alright." She grins, flicking her loose ponytail over her shoulder. Her faint familiar scent of blood and vodka wafts to Yuuri's nose. "He said he will be waiting for us by the plot." 

The small Orthodox Catholic church's cemetery has seen two centuries worth of dead bodies from St. Petersburg. As Yuuri cast the translation spell over his glasses, he watches as the cyrillic letters on the gravestone shift to something more recognizable. Japanese. 

Names, some nice inscriptions about the deceased, and dates. These are older dates, however. People who died in the early twentieth century. It's a nice cemetery with neat rows and pleasant statues of angels and Jesus Christ. 

Mila sniffs, raising her nose and inhaling the downhill breeze. "Hmm, I do smell someone over there. Maybe that is where our priest is at?" 

Yuuri follows. He has no idea where the priest is at, but he trusts Mila has a better idea. 

They end up finding a formally dressed priest nearly leaning against a headstone. He glances frequently at his watch, impatiently tapping his foot. He is middle-aged with layers of fat around his middle, his hairline receding faster than Yakov's. Yuuri, not possessing Mila's nose, can't even pick up a trace of his scent. 

Mila says something in Russian. 

The witch subtly flicks on his translation spell. 

"Father Vladimir?" Mila calls out in even louder Russian, waving with her hand. 

The priest straightens, as if suddenly tasered. "Oh, Mila, right? The witch I spoke to on the phone." 

Mila doesn't correct him and his assumption. The vampire smiles and nods. "Yes, I'm grateful that you are taking time out of your day to meet with us." She pauses, reaching into her pocket for a thick envelope. With a wink, she says, "You will find in here everything you asked for." Conspiratorially, she adds in a whisper, "And a bit more." 

"Excellent," the priest replies, eagerly snatching the envelope out of her hands. "I do have to ask this question. Is his body going to be destroyed completely in this ritual or relatively intact?" 

Yuuri interjects, "Relatively intact. How much does it cost to be buried here?" 

"One million, nine hundred, and fifty thousand rubles." 

"Did he pay for it?" 

The priest shrugs. "I don't know. But we have records. But if you want to see those records, I need this." He raises an eyebrow and rubs his fingers together in front of his face. 

"All the records on this plot, please." 

Once the priest has cleared the area, Mila switches back to English. "What are you doing, Yuuri?" 

"Nikolai Plisetsky worked as a janitor in a local St. Petersburg school, and he was still working in his age up to his death," Yuuri points out, dropping the translation spell. "There is absolutely no way he paid for a plot in a cemetery this nice." 

"It could have been Mr. Petrovich." 

"Maybe," Yuuri says, but not believing in his words at all. He watches as the priest merrily waves a ripped piece of paper at them. "Okay, you want to deal with him?" 

"As long as you give me some euros and you dig." 

The witch reaches into his pocket and fishes out a twenty euro. "I don't think I have anything bigger." 

Mila grabs it. "It'll do." 

Ignoring their conversation, Yuuri gives a long look at the headstone. Nikolai Plisetsky. Beloved son, father, and grandfather. Born on May 12, 1952. There is a splendid marble statue of an angel blowing its trumpet over the headstone. Yuuri thinks the angel statue may be overkill. 

Yuuri does not have a shovel in his magical coat. It seems like an oversight, but he does have a flat, smooth piece of white paper. It'll do. He borrows Nikolai Plisetsky's headstone and begins to fold the paper into a shovel. It's flimsy, but with magic, it can last much longer than an ordinary origami shovel. 

"Dig," he commands, dropping the paper shovel onto the grass. He watches the shovel shake itself to life, digging as if moved by an invisible hand. He reaches back into his coat, looking for another sheet of paper. 

"Oh, that is cheating," Mila complains, hobbling back to the scene of three paper shovels digging a two-foot deep hole. "You know, I have to get the shovels out and be a fake grave robber." 

"Don't be so sad," Yuuri says. "I only have two more spare pieces of paper, and I already broke one paper shovel. I'll have to join you in digging soon." 

"According to the the priest, it was not Mr. Petrovich who buried Plisetsky here. A name of Vladimir Popov signed the bill, no electronic trail. And I already had Mickey running the name down. But I wouldn't count on us finding one person. It's a common name in Russia. There will be at least three of them, all in St. Petersburg alone." 

It doesn't sound suspicious to Yuuri. The witch concentrates on the hole, watching the gaping cavity open wider and deeper. He asks, "Did the priest tell you how deep they typically put the coffin?" 

"Two meters." 

"This will take a while," Yuuri declares, glancing down at the deepening hole. "I will get the shovel and the ingredients. Car keys, please?" He catches the rental keys with ease. "I'll be back." 

"Don't get lost." 

When he comes back to Nikolai Plisetsky's resting place, he finds Mila playing Angry Birds on her smartphone as she disrespectfully sits on Plisetsky's headstone. He raises an eyebrow at that. "You are getting paid right now, right?" 

"Yep," Mila confirms cheerfully, stowing away her phone. "Oh, shovels! Another one of your paper shovels broke, and I think the last two are about to choke any moment now." 

It's true. Dirt and rocks has cut through the paper edges, and the shovels feebly carry dirt out of the deepening hole. There is a rude mountain of dirt on Nikolai Plisetsky's neighbor, an Alek. Surname, not visible. 

Mila unceremoniously grabs a shovel from Yuuri's hand and jumps into the hole. Dirt goes flying, and the witch barely has a second to dodge. 

"Seriously," he calls out, unamused. 

"Don't stand in front of the dirt pile," Mila advises. 

"I'm going to the church. Maybe they have some papers I can steal," Yuuri threatens, leaning over the edge. "I can make some more origami shovels." 

"What a lazy ass," the vampire snorts. "Get your butt down here and dig. You're worse than Phichit." 

Talking makes the digging go faster. 

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Yuuri huffs as he kicks the shovel deeper into the earth. "How am I worse than Phichit?" 

“We once dug up a witch murdered and buried in the Black Forest a few years ago. That was in Germany, I think. He was complaining all the way about his fake rotten knees, his not-really bad back, and his super-unbroken broken hip at his young ripe old age. He was making something up about arthritis before I told him off. At least, he had his hamsters helping.” 

Yuuri furrows his eyebrows. “How did his hamsters help?”

“They dig.” 

With that, the witch shuts up and digs. It turns into a mindless task, even as his bandaged palms are still aching. As they go deeper. Yuuri shoves down the vague claustrophobia crawling up his throat as dirt walls seem to swallow them. A dull clank behind him startles him. Turning around as he wiped the sweat from his brow, he pauses and asks, “Did you find it?” 

“I think so,” Mila answers, bending down to touch the dirt. She brushes away to reveal the face of a black wooden coffin. Then she says, “Nikolai Plisetsky, welcome back to the above ground. Can you lift him out, Yuuri?” 

“That I can do,” he confirms. He throws the shovel out of the hole, huffing as he pushes himself up. It’ll be easier to put the body back in, thankfully. He stands at the foot of the coffin above ground, brushing the dirt off his coat and waiting for the vampire to clear the hole. 

“Ah, I can’t wait to see his face,” says Mila. 

Like a conductor, the witch raises both of his hands and concentrates. Magic swirls in the very air, electrifying. The coffin is slowly lifted out, much heavier than it appears. Yuuri carefully controls the pacing, watching as the wooden coffin drops itself gently on top of Nikolai Plisetsky’s neighbor. Sorry, Ogla. 

Stepping towards the coffin, the vampire slips on blue examination gloves. With supernatural strength, Mila bends down and grips the lid, tearing the coffin wide open. Her nose quickly turns away. “I’ve forgotten how much this stinks!” she gasps, coughing. 

Yuuri takes two steps backwards, waving the air in front of his nose. “It’ll dissipate,” he reassures, breathing in through his mouth. Once a few minutes have passed, he peers into the coffin and stares at the rotten corpse sheltered within. 

Nikolai Plisetsky grins at them, his teeth in relatively good condition. His body has suffered under severe decomposition. Tufts of black hair remain intact. He lies still in a black suit that remains untouched by the decay. It’s not cotton but rather a resilient material, possibly polyester. His arms are placed by his side, dried bits of grey-black flesh practically glued to his bones. 

“I need a few finger bones,” Yuuri says, pulling out a fruit bowl from his coat. “You mind?” 

“Not at all.” Mila inhales deeply away from the coffin and returns to the corpse’s side. She easily snaps a thumb off the man’s hand. “Is the ritual going to destroy it?”

“Yep,” the witch confirms. He places the bowl on the ground. Reaching into his pockets, he finds a hexbag he has prepared earlier for this specific ritual. He places the bag in the center of the bowl. “Put the bone in there.” 

The vampire does. “Oh, and you have a tablet.” 

“Don’t tell Interpol what I did to their tablet,” says Yuuri, opening the said tablet to Google Maps. He leaves it on the globe view. “They will hate me forever. Hold the iPad out.” 

“I’m going to hate this.” 

Yuuri squats, the bowl in front of him. His right palm lights with witchfire. The ends of the hexbag’s wool strings catch witchfire from Yuuri’s palm. Then the materials burn, the smell of incense and burnt hair overtaking the pungent smell of the decaying corpse. He patiently waits for the bowl to burn out, the blue magical fire eagerly licking everything from the cotton cloth to the chicken foot. 

“What did you put in there?”

“Rosemary, leets, dried coconut, unicorn hair, and a few drops of unicorn blood. There are some other things in smaller traces.” Yuuri slowly stands up, carrying the smoking bowl in front of Mila. “Alright, it’s going to burn out in a minute, so I need you to hold the tablet still.” 

“Okay.” 

As soon as the flames go out, Yuuri carefully tips the bowl over and spreads the smoking ashes all over the tablet screen. He waves the smoke away, resisting the urge to cough as he watches the magic work. 

Or it doesn’t. 

Google Maps does not move at all, the globe of the world still spinning happily. 

“Yuuri?” coughs Mila. “Do you have the location?” 

“No,” the witch answers, his eyebrows furrowing. The ashes disintegrate into nothing, leaving a dusty layer on top of the tablet’s screen. “It’s not registering a location. It's saying he has no descendants.” He pauses. “We have a problem.”

* * *

Upon returning to the navigator seat in the rented car, Yuuri texts Victor.  _ I’m really sorry. Work is having me run around a little bit. I’m going to be late home.  _

His response is instantaneous.  _ No problem. Take your time. )  _

“Who are you texting?” 

“Shouldn’t you be watching the road?”

“I am watching the road. But,” she pauses, following the instructions being given by the GPS. She flicks the signal light on. “You’re stalling, you didn’t answer the question.” 

“My mate.” 

She gasps. “And you didn’t throw a party to celebrate! I’m offended now.” She cheerfully cuts off a honking Russian driver and turns into an apartment complex. “Wow, I didn’t know you were being courted. Phichit said you had a bite mark, but I didn’t believe him.” 

“Phichit has a big mouth.” 

She snorts. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Alright, this Vladimir Popov lives on the second floor. According to the information sent by Mickey, he is eighty-seven years old and lives alone. Worked as a teacher in the same school Plisetsky worked at. Wife passed away eight years ago.” She parks the car in a guest spot, pulling the parking brake. She muses, staring into the rearview mirror as she adjusts her red hair, “Kind of a lonely way to die. Your friend is dead, your wife is dead, and you have no one to visit you.” 

“Yeah,” Yuuri agrees, slipping on the translation spell. “It is sad.” 

Two knocks on the front door of Mr. Popov’s apartment results in a deep grunt of acknowledgement from the other side of the door. 

An old man with a stroller opens the door. “What do you want?” 

“Vladimir Popov?” Mila says in Russian. 

“Yeah. What do you want?” 

“Interpol.” She holds out her badge. “Can we come in?” 

The apartment is small. Every inch is covered by a framed photograph. Some are in color, the others are not. An old television, on mute in black and white, sits in front of a messy bed. The old man doesn’t even have a parlour. It’s a sad existence, Yuuri muses. To be sitting everyday with no friends or family and waiting for the very end while staring at old pictures, the immortalized memories of the glory days. 

The witch frowns, staring at the tiny kitchenette with its rusty sink and stove. 

_ One million, nine hundred, and fifty thousand rubles. _

It bothers him. The average household income in Russia is four hundred and fifty thousand rubles. It will take Mr. Popov at least four years to make up the burial price for Nikolai Plisetsky and leave him hurting in the wallet. 

“What are your names?” the old man asks, grunting. 

“Yuuri Katsuki.” 

“Mila Babicheva.” 

“You have questions. Ask them.” 

Yuuri exchanges a look with Mila. Well, he seems to be more approachable than most witnesses. He glances at the old man, eyeing the liver spots on his face and the shrunken eyes. “Mr. Popov, do you know Nikolai Plisetsky?”

“Worked with him. Twenty-two years. He still worked there when I retired.” 

Mila takes over. “Did you attend his funeral at Saint Isaac's Church?” 

The old man narrows his eyes. “I wasn’t aware that he had a funeral at Saint Isaac’s Church?” 

The witch exchanges another look with Mila. Yuuri interjects, "Mr. Papov, did you know Mr. Plisetsky well?" 

"No." 

Yuuri shifts gears, probing. "Did you pay for a burial plot at Saint Isaac's Church?" 

"Yes." 

"For Mr. Plisetsky?" 

The old man's dark eyes widen. "No! Why do you think I know that janitor well? I say good morning to him when I see, but that is the most I ever did. Why are you asking me this? How is this important to your case, agents?" 

Yuuri's expression does not change. He questions, "Then who did you bury in the cemetery behind St. Isaac's Church?" 

"I. . ." 

"Mr. Popov?" Mila prompts. "Are you alright?" 

They watch the old man shake, tears gathering. 

"My son. Years ago. My only son. My poor Michail. Died too young at fifty-eight. No wife, no children. I buried him. This is not the way it should have been." The old man shuffles forward with his stroller, his frail hand reaching to a black and white photograph of a smiling boy glowing with youth.

* * *

"Now I want to know who changed the name on the gravestone,” Yuuri huffs, slamming the navigator’s door a lot harder than he meant to. 

“So do I.” 

“That baby disappeared from a hospital sixteen years ago, possibly switched at birth while he was still in the incubator,” the witch says, pulling out his phone from his pocket. He ignores the text notifications from Interpol’s Human Resources. He’ll read it later. “Someone is actively hiding the antichrist.” 

“We were assuming Nikolai Plisetsky is dead,” Mila muses. “But what if he’s not? What if he’s hiding the antichrist right now somewhere in the world.” 

“If we obtain Yulia Plisetsky’s ashes, I can maybe find a ritual that can incorporate them to track down her son. It’ll take days of researching, but it’s probably a quicker avenue than trying to get a DNA sample from Sergei Petrovich and hoping there is a match in the system. And—” Yuuri cuts himself off, because he can mention another line of information. Victor. Victor will know whether or not he has collected Nikolai Plisetsky’s soul. 

“And?”

“I have a contact who might know something.” 

“That sounds very specific,” Mila sarcastically remarks. But thankfully, she does not ask any further. She floors the gas pedal, heading south towards the car rental agency. “I do wonder if it’s better to leave the antichrist alone. Hidden. Under whoever’s protection.” 

“We have no idea if he’s under protection. For all we know, Nikolai Plisetsky might be a supernatural creature.” A pause as Yuuri quietly dismisses the thought. Yulia Plisetsky would have also been, and because she worked for a new corporation that favored supernatural creatures at that time, she would have disclosed it as required by the now-defunct labor laws. But no. She was listed as human, proudly and openly standing next to werewolves, witches, and vampires. “But I don’t think he can fight the entire hordes of Hell and win. Maybe if he was an archangel. I won’t take that chance, and neither will Yakov. We have no choice in the matter. We are finding him before Hell can.” 

* * *

Victor picks him up from Lyon at eight o’clock at night without complaining. He whistles in the kitchen, reheating the dishes he’s already made hours ago. Making small talk, he recounts the misadventures of a patient in the Emergency Room. “You won’t believe it. He was already on painkillers from his wisdom teeth extraction surgery when he fell off his skateboard. Only got a sprained arm and didn’t even feel the pain. He thought my stethoscope was a fancy necklace and asked if he could bring it home.” 

The witch snorts. “Did you let him?”

“I did after he licked it and chewed off the earpiece.” 

Yuuri coughs, the tea going down the wrong way as he desperately tries to stop laughing at the image of Victor in scrubs staring in shock at his stethoscope being eaten by a punk teenager on painkillers with his mother despairing behind him. 

Leaning forward, Victor helpfully pats him on the back. “How was your day?”

“Exhumed a body.” 

The alpha raises an eyebrow. “Is that usual?” 

“Maybe an annual occurrence.” Yuuri sets down his tea cup. “Victor,” he pauses, trying to come up with the right order of words. “I have a question about your other job.”

The alpha turns, switching off the stove. “Yes?” 

“It’s not really about the specifics of your job. But I’m looking for someone, and I don’t think they’re dead. Are you able to find out if they’re dead or—”

Victor pulls his phone out of his pocket. Without missing a blink, he inquires, “Do you have their nationality?" 

"Russian." 

The alpha hits a button on his phone. "Name?" 

"Nikolai Plisetsky." 

The alpha doesn't react to that. "Do you know his SNILS number?" 

"No." Yuuri doesn't even know what that acronym even stands for. 

"Date of birth?” 

The witch has those numbers. 

"Oh! The antichrist's grandfather." A pause as Victor scrolls on his phone. "He's not due for a visit from me anytime soon, but he should watch the growth on his stomach." 

Yuuri's own stomach flips. "You mean. . .” 

“Yes, he’s alive,” the alpha confirms, returning his phone into the pockets of his sweatpants. “So,” he says, smiling as if having not dropped a major bomb. “Ready for dinner?”

* * *

Lying awake in bed as he stares up at the dark ceiling, Yuuri's mind can't shut off. Throughout dinner, he can’t help but puzzle over Victor’s expression and the very tone of his words. He probably doesn’t know or care about the current fate of the antichrist and his grandfather. Or maybe, he thinks telling this bit of information to Yuuri will help hasten the coming of the Apocalypse. 

He doesn't know. But it's not his priority to worry right now. He has a job, and it's to find and protect the antichrist. 

“You’re tense,” Victor says, pulling the witch into his arms. He’s shirtless, his skin so warm to the touch. There’s no other place like this, being buried in the shelter of Victor’s arms, safe and sound. His breath skims across the witch’s shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Well.” 

Silence. 

“Yuuri, I don’t know what’s on your mind if you don’t say anything,” the alpha whispers. “Sometimes, I wish I could. We would have prevented a lot of arguments in the past if either of us were able to read each other perfectly so.” 

Silence. 

“Victor,” breathes the witch. “Can I make a request?”

“Of course.” 

Yuuri rearranges himself in Victor’s arms, turning so he can glance at the shadows dancing across the alpha’s face. “I want to be properly courted.”


	2. Samuel II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Riddle by Kodaline

"I went to the apartment complex Nikolai lived in until he fake-died, and there is almost absolutely nothing left. Management gave some of his furniture to the other occupants, but I don't think you can use them, Yuuri," Mila says, her voice slightly muffled by the quality of the speakerphone. 

The witch sighs. "If I were alive and hiding, I wouldn't leave behind my daughter's ashes either. Thanks, Mila. I'll have to look through a few more rituals to see what other materials we may use to find the antichrist." 

"No problem," replies the vampire. "It's nice being back in Russia anyway." 

The witch adjusts his eyeglasses, typing up search queries into the academic sites. "I hope there is a ritual that can use the father's genetic material. There has to be a witch who was suspicious about how many children their partner really had." 

"Well, call me back when you do." 

The call ends. 

A ritual with the skull of the father to find his living male descendants. A ritual with the pelvic bone of the father to find all descendants. He thinks Mr. Petrovich, who is still living, would take offense to all of these rituals. He would like to keep both his skull and pelvic bone. 

Or maybe he can find the parents of Mr. Petrovich. Perhaps they are dead, and they will not have to obtain a bone from the antichrist's father. He types in Mr. Petrovich's details, looking for birth records. Russia has digitized those records, and. . . He finds their names, running a query on an Igor Petrovich. An obituary arises. According to the newspaper article, he died twenty years ago and is buried at a cemetery maintained by a Russian Orthodox church. 

Yuuri quickly calls the vampire back. "Mila," he says, not even bothering with social niceties. "Can you go to the cemetery at a church called St. Basil's Church located in Moscow?" 

"You're making me dig?" She gasps, sounding as if severely offended.

"I need a finger bone from an Igor Petrovich. He was born on January 12, 1934." 

"You're not helping?" 

"I need to prepare the ritual. I'm completely out of unicorn hair and frog legs. I have to raid Phichit's stores for chicken feathers.” 

“I said it before and I’ll say it again. At least, Phichit’s hamsters helped me dig,” she growls. “If you’re not coming—”

“No, I’m coming. You’re taking a flight from St. Petersburg to Moscow, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “It’ll take me an hour, maybe two to go through the portals, but I need some time to prep for the ritual. So I’ll be there in three hours.”

“You better be! I’ll call ahead to the church to see if they’re any bit amenable as Father Vladimir. Otherwise, we’re breaking into the cemetery at the dead of night.” 

Yuuri glances upwards at the ceiling. "I don't think we have to make a decision that drastic." 

"Pft. We might. I haven't gone grave robbing in years," Mila cheerfully admits. "Okay, I'll see you in three hours. Don't be late." 

She hangs up. 

Yuuri leans back, grabbing a smartphone. He huffs when he finds it's the work phone on mute and receiving the occasional text message from reporters. He reaches for the correct phone. He's about to text Victor that they'll have to postpone their date tonight until he thinks better of it. In fact. . . 

He backs out of the draft page and switches to start a new text with Mila. "Are you able to find the priest amenable?" 

She doesn't respond. 

Yuuri sets the phone down and goes back to the computer monitor. He calls a few local witch shops to inquire about their supply. The unicorn blood proves to be the most difficult to find, which is not surprising. It's expensive, and unicorns are under layers of legal protection. To find an unicorn willing to give blood is a rarity. There is a thriving black market selling unicorn parts. The Chinese market especially loves its unicorn horns. 

It turns out a small supply of unicorn blood has been right under Yuuri's nose. Interpol has seized the assets of a magical smuggler and among one of the many objects he's selling is a glass vial of unicorn blood. Yuuri merely has to write out his request to the department of anti-smuggling. Interpol's internal delivery system, which Yakov utilizes to his fullest advantage, pops a thick yellow envelope on Yuuri's desk an hour after he requested the blood. The process was expedited when Yakov marked his request as high priority. 

When he rips open the envelope, he finds packaging paper surrounding a capped syringe full of exactly .1 milliliter of milky pink unicorn blood and nothing more. Yuuri turns in his seat, pushing his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose to see at his workstation better. He absentmindedly puts together a hexbag, dropping a chewed chicken bone he saved from lunch into the bag. There is a specific order in the creation of a hexbag that Yuuri finds comforting. It's like baking. Follow the instructions perfectly and then find cookies at the last step. 

The syringe offers two droplets of unicorn blood on a pile of dried rosemary. Yuuri picks up the cloth end of the hexbag and ties it all up with a wool string. He carefully places it into his coat pocket and then checks text messages. 

There's a few from Mila. 

_ Just arrived in Moscow.  _

_ You coming yet?  _

_ Father Alexei is amenable. He agreed to let us exhume the body for thirty thousand rubles and is letting us use his machines.  _

Yuuri texts back.  _ I haven't even left France.  _

She responds nearly instantaneously.  _ Dude, wtf, I can fly back to France in time to give you his finger bone. Can't believe you didn't show up and refused to help me dig.  _

The witch types,  _ I didn't refuse to. I was busy working on obtaining ingredients. Just ship the finger bone overnight through FedEx. I'll handle it tomorrow morning.  _

He sets his phone aside before he is tempted to argue technicalities with the vampire. Georgi is already doomed to fight her about whether or not he drank her blood-infused coffee cup in 1984 for the rest of his life. Seung-gil is smart enough to never open his mouth against Mila and to always act disinterested whenever accused of swapping Mila's AB blood bag with O negatives. 

He smiles as he writes up an analysis regarding a murder case in New York City. He's not going to miss his first date with Victor tonight, and he's going to have enough time to go shopping after work. 

* * *

“You look beautiful” is the first thing Victor says when he picks him up in France. The words are spoken breathlessly, as if the very sight of Yuuri has taken away every thought the alpha possessed. He shouldn't be so stunned and awestruck, not with the flawless black suit he has on. If anything,  _ Yuuri  _ should be the one drooling. Wearing a suit that good should be a sin. 

"You always say that." 

"Do I?" Victor pauses at that, a finger tapping his chin. "I don't think it's been said often enough," the alpha parries. 

Is it cheesy? 

Yes. 

Is Yuuri falling for it anyway? 

Yes. Definitely yes. 

The witch blushes. His cheeks red, he blurts out, "But you deserve compliments too. You look incredibly handsome, Victor. Especially with your suit." 

"Oh?" Victor murmurs. He pauses in his step and turns to look right at Yuuri's eyes, azure eyes peering through his eyelashes. "Do you have a thing for me in suits?" 

"Yes, definitely yes." 

Victor doesn't say anything about that. He merely smiles, flicking away his silver bangs. Then he continues walking leisurely. 

"So where is this place you have never taken me to before?" Yuuri questions. The alpha has promised to take him to a place no one else has taken Yuuri on a date before. The list of dates is quite short. Yuuri can count on one hand the places he's been on a date. A dorm in Seoul, South Korea. A small cafe in Detroit. A lovely koi pond in Hasetsu. An amusement park in Tokyo. 

Unless Victor is counting every version of Yuuri. Then the list is perhaps quite longer. 

The alpha insists on Yuuri holding his hand as they flick in and out of places. He has seen the dark lights of Berlin, the colorful street life of Paris, and an unrecognizable city Victor took him to in between Paris and Berlin. 

"Are you still deciding where to take me?" The witch wonders. 

"No, I thought we should see the sights of Europe before we leave this continent," Victor says as they walk across the lighted areas of London Bridge.

"We're not staying in Europe?" Yuuri asks, moving closer to Victor as they pass a pedestrian hurrying on the sidewalk. He doesn't mention anything when Yuuri doesn't move away from Victor and neither does the alpha. Personal space? Yuuri has never heard of that concept. 

"Nope," Victor answers with a pop. 

"That only narrows it down to six continents." 

"Narrow it down to five. I have no intentions of taking you to Antarctica tonight." 

"But you might take me?" 

"I've taken you there before. When you were more suitably dressed for the weather. That was a couple hundred years ago. We made igloos." 

"Are you taking me to the United States?" Yuuri guesses, once they've arrived in the heart of the Big Apple, New York City. It's still bustling, the sky alight with sun. "Or somewhere in the Americas?" 

"Yes, Americas. Specifically, California." The scenery changes as Victor takes flight once again. "We are here," the alpha announces. 

Yuuri adjusts his glasses. It's rather bright here, which is surreal. The very idea of time zones is strange when one can fly faster than the speed of light. Eyes flicking across the smokestacks of a building, he reads the sign aloud. "The Monterey Bay Aquarium?" 

"Welcome to Monterey, California." A pause as Victor walks then towards the entrance and pulls out two tickets from his pocket. "This was established over thirty years ago as a nonprofit." He flashes a smile at the woman ripping apart tickets.

"Enjoy your visit," she says, handing back half of their tickets. 

Victor grabs a brochure, passing it to Yuuri. "Would you like the usual tour or shall we go see wander around?" The alpha smiles. "Your choice." 

"Let's wander," Yuuri declares. 

A pause as they pass a large kelp forest, iridescent with colors. Fish and leopard sharks swim in between the forest. They brush passed a few tourists taking photographs. Yuuri gasps at the sight, the aquarium standing three stories tall. 

"I have never seen one so big." 

"Over three hundred thousand gallons of water in this particular aquarium. They pump the water in through a filter from the ocean. So it’s real sea water," Victor says, pausing in his step as they view the aquarium. "We should take a picture. Of both of us." 

The witch has never been a fan of selfies, but he finds himself following Victor’s directions. Yuuri lets go of Victor's hands as they turn their backs to the aquarium and pose for a selfie, Yuuri standing on his tiptoes to throw his arms around the alpha's broad shoulders. It turns out well, even to Yuuri's standards. Yuuri, a little red in his cheeks smiling with Victor looking as perfectly poised as always but startlingly happy. 

Then they move on, hands finding each other once again. 

"I learned not to take you to an animal shelter on a date the hard way." 

"Oh?" Yuuri raises an eyebrow. "Why is that?" 

"You insisted on adopting a few dogs. I couldn't resist, and that was how Makkachin got a few siblings. A hundred years ago." 

He doesn't have to ask the fate of those siblings. Yuuri doesn't think too long about it as he points to the sea otters. Victor, who has clearly been here before, acts as Yuuri's own personal tour guide. 

Upon passing the exhibit on the endangered African penguins, Yuuri inquires, "Have you been here often?" 

"Once before for a medical conference," Victor answers. At Yuuri's confused expression, he quickly explains, "They had a conference about heart surgery and the pacemaker a few blocks down from here. That was four years ago. A couple local doctors recommended the foreign doctors to visit Monterey Bay Aquarium before they leave. It's a beautiful place." 

Yuuri agrees. But the sight of Victor is even better. 

They enter the gift shop, Yuuri smiling at the small stingray stuffed animal. He picks it up, holding it out to Victor. "It's really—” 

The alpha gasp, palm slapping his face. "We forgot about the stingrays. We really should go there." 

"Victor. . ." Yuuri's voice trails off at the sight of a small girl tugging at the ends of his coat. Distracted, he says, "Yes?" 

She points to the stingray. "Can I have that, mister?" The girl asks politely. She must be only eight or nine, her light brown hair in pigtails. "They say they don't have any more in the back." 

"I—” 

"Biyu, what are you doing?" Her mother gasps in Mandarin, rushing over from the brochure stand. "Don't talk to strangers!" 

“But Mama! He has the plushie I want,” the girl speaks back, piping in Mandarin. Preoccupied with arguing with her mother in rapidfire Chinese, she doesn’t notice Yuuri heading over to the cashier desk. 

The witch says, “This one please.” 

Victor puts down his credit card before Yuuri can even find his own. He smiles and grabs a keychain with a silver stingray dangling. “And this too. On my card. I will need a bag, please.” 

“Victor!” Yuuri gasps. “I can pay for it.” 

“No, I invited you here. I’m taking you out on a date. I’m paying,” the alpha insists, pulling back Yuuri’s hand. “Besides, you can pay for the tip for dinner.” 

“That’s not fair.” Yuuri’s mind whirls. The alpha is already sheltering Yuuri in his home, Yuuri is merely paying half of the groceries and all of Makkachin’s new doggy toys ordered from the internet, and Victor personally flies Yuuri back and forth between Spain and Japan. He’s doing far more for Yuuri than Yuuri is doing for him. 

Victor grabs the bag, the credit card, and the receipt. “Oh, Yuuri. I never play fair when it comes to courting." He winks and hands the bag to the omega. "I believe this is yours." 

"Victor." 

"Well, you better hurry. I think they're about to leave," the alpha points out. 

The witch gives one last look of fond exasperation, but he turns to the mother and child. In Mandarin, he says, "Here, a gift to you." He reaches into the bag and shows the stuffed stingray. "The last one they have." 

"Ah, you didn't have to," weakly insists the mother, not stopping her child from taking the stingray. "She doesn't need a toy. She has plenty at home. Fishes, an orca, a shark." 

"But I don't have stingrays at home," the girl innocently protests in Mandarin. 

"No, please take it," the witch says, his words even louder and more confident than the mother’s. "She likes it very much. Besides," he adds with a sigh, "a child is a blessing. They must be cherished." 

He wins the argument after that. Once the mother and child leaves the tourist shop, he feels a calming presence approaching him. A hand briefly touches his shoulder. 

"Yuuri?" 

"Let's go see the stingrays." 

His mood does pick up upon feeling the smooth, bumpy skin of the stingrays. Victor joins him, hands touching the aquatic life. They wash their hands afterwards to see the exhibit on jellyfishes. Yuuri laughs as Victor takes yet another selfie of them both in front of an orange octopus. 

"If there exists aliens on earth, I won't be surprised if it was an octopus," Yuuri whispers as they listen in on a tour guide's presentation on octopuses. 

"Platypus would be my choice. Australia is a strange place." 

Yuuri agrees. Australia is most definitely a place unlike anywhere else in the world. His hand finds their way back to Victor's, their fingers intertwined once more. 

"Did you have a good time?" Victor asks. 

"I did." 

"Want to go home or do you want to go somewhere to eat?" The alpha questions, gauging the witch's expression. 

"Let's go somewhere. I have to pay for someone's tip, right?" 

So Victor flies them to downtown Los Angeles in a blink of an eye. He pops into Chinatown and ignores P.F. Chang's in favor of a true Chinese restaurant with eel and phoenix soup on the menu. "I thought we should take a change in cuisine." 

He's a bit surprised, and he voices, "I'm surprised you didn't fly to China." 

"I could have, but the restaurants in China are crowded. Right now, it's not even lunch time for Californians. So we can get food sooner without sitting in a busy, loud restaurant." He waves at the hostess. "Hello, table for two," he says in flawless Mandarin. 

"You can speak Chinese?" whispers Yuuri. 

"Long story short," Victor pauses, "you were the one who taught me how to speak Chinese without a Western or Japanese accent." 

A past version of Yuuri then. 

"How did I know Chinese?" 

"You worked for a merchant family who shipped goods back and forth between Japan and China while hunting down a rogue vampire, who was feeding on sailors at sea and throwing them overboard once he drained them. This was while we were courting." Victor pulls out a chair for Yuuri in a private corner. "Here you go." 

The witch sits down, pulling off his coat to reveal a new blue sweater and accepting the menu from the hostess. "Thank you." 

Victor opens his own menu, but he doesn't take his eyes off of Yuuri. "I'm thinking of Peking duck. Have any preferences? Anything you want to eat?" 

The witch scans the menu, surprised to find it completely in Mandarin. "Not anything raw. I have a ritual to attend to tomorrow. Crab would be nice." 

"Okay." He waves for a passing waitress. 

In Mandarin, she asks, "Hello, ready to order?" 

"Yes." Victor helpfully points out the dishes to the waitress. "Hot pot with sea cucumbers, number two hundred forty. Peking duck, sliced. A pot of white rice. Long beans, fifty-eight. Honey walnut shrimp, eighty-four." He flips a few pages. "Oyster sauce crab with a bowl of soy sauce, please. For dessert, red bean soup." 

The waitress nods, turning to Yuuri. "Anything else?" 

The witch shakes his head. "No, my mate got everything covered." He passes the menu to the waitress. "I don't think we can possibly eat everything," he says, switching back to Japanese. 

"No, but Makkachin loves leftovers." He leans back in his chair. "So you have a ritual scheduled tomorrow?" 

"Yes. A brief one involving a finger bone. I can't go into that many details about it, because it's an active case," Yuuri explains, hands grabbing a tea cup before Victor could. He murmurs thanks to the waitress bringing a steaming teapot and pours them both tea. 

"You must have a lot of stories about your work at Interpol," Victor says. "How many years have you worked there?" 

"Since the 90s." 

"So thirty years." A pause. "Saw any unique cases? Fairies? Banshees? Zombies?" 

"Technically, the bodies necromancers bring back are zombies," Yuuri points out. "They get better every year. They break into cemeteries to bring back the dead. The fresher the better. Then they go to predatory lenders in disadvantaged areas and take out a loan. Thousands of dollars disappear. A couple thousand to tens of thousands, depending on how good the credit of the deceased was. An ongoing problem." 

"It's the oldest scam." 

"Yes," Yuuri agrees. "One time, there was a small coven of three witches who thought to scam some money by having the deceased open department store credit cards to buy expensive luxury items. Handbags, jewelry, shoes. Hundreds of thousands worth of merchandise." 

"Interpol sent you?" 

"Yes," the witch confirms. "I had to figure out who they were, but they got careless, because they were pawning off the jewelry at pawn shops with surveillance videos. Personally instead of using the deceased. So they weren't that clever." He pauses. "How about you? Any interesting stories? Patients?" 

"One time I had a patient coming in with a head injury. We were trying to determine whether or not she had a concussion. Older lady in her seventies, her son was worried that she might have hit her head too hard against the bed frame while falling. So our medical intern couldn't determine if she had a head injury. I took the flashlight to check her eyes, and she said to me. . ." Pausing dramatically, he quotes, "'You look like my fifth husband.'" 

"Fifth husband?" Yuuri tries not to laugh. 

"Wait, it gets better," Victor promises, quirking up his lips into a near-smile. "So I asked her son how many husbands she had to see if her mind is comprehending or confused." A pause. "He told me she had recently divorced her fourth and is currently single." 

The witch laughs, unable to stop the giggles from escaping his mouth. "She was hitting on you?" 

"She was most definitely not having a concussion. She was well enough to draw a little heart and write her phone number on a business card. Her son was relieved it wasn't anything serious." 

Minutes pass by quickly as Victor dives into another E.R. story involving a girl who brought her dog in, because none of the vet hospitals were open. "It was late at night," he explains, eyes twinkling. "Her dog was feeling unwell and didn’t eat the entire day. She was worried it might have been cancer or some sort of rare disease she read from Pet M.D. She was panicking, and she asked if it was possible for us to take an x-ray for the dog." 

Yuuri narrows his eyes suspiciously. "The dog was pregnant, wasn't she?" 

"Yes!" Grinning, he continues, "She started giving birth in the lobby. Imagine it. Eight family members and friends of other patients sitting there, just gawking as nurses frantically grabbed padding so the dog wouldn't give birth on the floor. The intern was Googling what to do while the nurse practitioner was screaming. Catch! That was what she said and then proceeded to knock his phone to the floor. Five dogs. Three girls, two boys. Mother dog was very happy to have them out." He frowns and reaches into his pocket. "I think I still have the pictures." 

Yuuri cooes over every single photo. The dog, a beautiful golden retriever, is surrounded by five little dogs with their eyes closed as they latch onto their mother for milk. He could have spent forever looking at every photo if it isn't for the waitress swinging by with a red pot of rice and a plate of their stir-fried long beans with red pepper. 

She announces, "The chef will bring the duck." Then she takes her leave. 

"The chef brings the duck?" Yuuri raises an eyebrow. In all the years he went out to eat with suspects or fellow coworkers or even with his sister, he has not recall seeing the chef bringing out a duck. 

"You will see," Victor says, rearranging the plates to allow the waitress to put a plate of glazed honey walnut shrimp. "Thank you." 

"You're welcome," she replies back in English. 

Yuuri nearly misses the waitress putting out the hot pot when the chef himself comes out from the kitchen. He watches in surprise as the chef sets up a table and presents a roasted duck, its bronze skin shiny with oil. Then he begins to slice with ease, every movement of the knife fluid as it cuts through the flesh. 

"Can we keep the rest of the duck? Boxed, please," Victor inquires. "My dog enjoys it." 

The chef nods. "Of course." 

"I don't think I've ever seen a chef prepare a duck that way," Yuuri muses once the chef has left a plate of duck slices with sauce. 

"It's technically part of the presentation," the alpha explains, scooping out a bowl of rice. "But I think with the economy changing and less people eating out, there aren't as many Chinese restaurants doing a show while preparing Peking duck." 

Yuuri hums at that. Then he picks up his chopsticks and whispers, "Itadakimasu." He waits for Victor to do the same before he begins eating. Yuuri can't stop the near-sexual moan as he tastes the long beans, tongue licking for the sauce caught at the corner of his lips. 

The alpha hungrily eyes the witch. He muses, "I suppose I should ask the chef for the recipe." 

Yuuri wants to moan at that thought, the brilliant idea of Victor making these dishes for him. It causes something deep inside of him to want to purr in delight, and he helplessly breathes, "Marry me." 

The alpha blushes. "That's quick for a first date." He dips a few pieces of duck into the sauce and chews. 

It doesn't matter. Victor has ruined him for anyone else, in Yuuri's opinion. The goal by the end of this courtship is a safe world, a happy and satisfied alpha, two wedding rings, and a beautiful beach wedding with their closest friends. Chris can be invited. 

It's a nice dream to think of. 

Upon having every dish boxed up to go, Yuuri fights over his dessert bowl of sweet red bean soup to see the bill. "Come on. You said that I would pay for the tip at the aquarium." 

The alpha relents after that. 

Yuuri shoves down a smile. Well, Victor never claimed to be fair in a courtship and has been hoping Yuuri might have forgotten about his duty to provide the tip for dinner. His eyes nearly explode at the price of two hundred and thirty dollars. The hot pot and the crab takes the biggest chunk of the bill. It must be the sea cucumbers, Yuuri muses. Those tend to be incredibly expensive. A tip of twenty-five percent comes out to be fifty-seven dollars and fifty cents. 

The witch rounds up and pays sixty dollars in cash. He's quietly thankful he has some cash on him. Otherwise, Victor might insist that  _ he  _ pays the tip, and Yuuri can't have that. 

They arrive back in Matsuura to a house lit inside with Makkachin patiently sitting next to her doggy bowl. She pants happily, head perking up hopefully once she notices the boxes in Yuuri and Victor's hands. She begins with whining, as if Victor has never fed her once in her entire life. 

Victor is having none of it. "Makkachin, was the meatloaf not enough for you? You had three meatloafs." 

The poodle turns her sad eyes to the witch. 

"Makkachin, don't you dare look at Yuuri," says the alpha. He makes a few steps towards her. "Do you promise not to eat my shoes for the next two months?" 

The poodle whines some more. Then she stops, her legs happily trotting over to her doggy bowl. She sits, tail thumping as she eagerly waits. 

Victor turns to Yuuri. "Help me put the food away while I reheat some duck for my shoe-eating dog?" 

The witch nods, smiling. "Of course." 

So he puts the leftovers in glass containers according to their size, placing them in a neat stack on the shelves of Victor's refrigerator. He sees Victor placing the rest of the Peking duck on a plate for Makkachin to enjoy. 

"Remember. No eating my shoes! Especially my Italian ones." 

The poodle sits on her hindquarters, barking once. Her tag wags fiercely. She's drooling as the plate is lowered before her, and she eagerly snaps off a duck bone. Hellhounds, unlike regular dogs, can eat every part of a duck, down to its very bones. They might hack up a few feathers, though. 

Yuuri takes his leave, going to the master bathroom to brush his teeth. He briefly showers and then grabs a bathrobe as he opens up Victor's closet to find the alpha's unused pajamas. Victor, before he had Yuuri sleeping beside him, sleeps in the nude. He picks out the grey cotton set and slides the closet door closed. 

Then he relaxes in bed, blocking the sunlight outside with thick blackout curtains at the swish of a hand and summoning his work laptop from his coat to check on a few work emails. None of the emails are important; he goes to the FedEx website to track the process of the finger bone package. It's halfway across Europe now and expected to be in France in an hour. Bless overnight shipping. 

He types up a few reports and stifles a yawn. Though he is vaguely tired from walking, he still has a few things to do before he falls asleep. The laptop is sent flying back to his coat. 

Victor is still dressed in his suit when he begins to unbutton his suit jacket while opening his closet. He whistles and then asks, "Had a good date?" He stows away his fancy Italian shoes at the bottom. 

Yuuri quietly sneaks up behind him. His hands stop Victor from pulling off his pristine midnight-black suit jacket. With a whisper, the witch purrs straight into Victor's ear. "The date is not over yet." 

"Oh?" Victor says in surprise. 

The alpha turns around, and Yuuri's hand clasp around his tie as he pulls him down to the bed. His eyes are lidded as he murmurs, "I don't tend to put out after a first date." He eagerly wraps his arms around Victor as he gently kisses the alpha's lips. 

The alpha is the first to break away, lifting himself a bit up to glance at the witch's face. "You don't have to. We go at your pace." 

Yuuri smiles, hands snaking down to tug at Victor's belt. "Then keep up, Vitenka." 

The alpha stares at the witch as if he's the answer and the solution to every mystery in the world. He rolls off of Yuuri and fumbles at his nightstand, a fist clenching for condoms. He grabs five, and Yuuri stops him before he can put any of them back. 

Purring, Yuuri drapes himself over Victor's clothed back. "Leave them out. I'm not sure if that's even enough for us. And leave the suit on." 

"Oh, I see how it is," the alpha growls, throwing Yuuri off. Rising over the supine omega, he hastily pulls off the pajama bottoms, kissing the supple thighs and extracting sharp breaths from the witch. A hand reaches down to flick open the button of his fly, unbuckling his leather belt. He pushes down his pants, not bothering to kick them off. 

"Hurry," coyly orders the witch, flipping over onto his fours to wiggle his black boxers and his ass at the alpha. "Otherwise, I think I should grab a toy from your box—”

With a curl of his thumbs, he yanks off Yuuri’s boxers down to his knees, carelessly leaving them bundled around the witch’s knees. He pinches the curve of Yuuri’s ass, and he punctuates with emphasis, “You will”—the alpha’s teeth skims the soft flesh—”do”—a hot tongue licks a stripe around Yuuri’s needy, wet entrance—”no such thing.” Victor flips the witch onto his back, tearing the boxers down Yuuri’s legs. They disappear, tossed to the floor. 

Yuuri’s hands instinctively grab the alpha’s silver hair, gasping as the alpha’s mouth skillfully latches to his entrance, Victor’s tongue diving deep inside of Yuuri. “Don’t stop,” he cries, arching as Victor devours the omega. He spreads his legs wider, his mouth parting. 

“You taste better than dinner, solnyshko,” the alpha rasps. 

Two slicked fingers replace Victor’s mouth as his lips surround the witch’s cock. Yuuri hears the alpha fumbling with a single hand, trying to rip open the foil wrapper of the condom. 

Yuuri whines when Victor withdraws completely. 

"Sorry. This wrapper is not tearing," the alpha growls, his fingers battling against the foil. He manages to open it with his teeth. 

"I think you need to file a strongly-worded complaint." Yuuri rolls over, plucking the condom out of the wrapper. He leans down, torso bowing as he bestows a soft kiss at the very tip of Victor's erection, his tongue kitten-licking the slit as it gathers precum. His fingers slowly roll the condom over the other man's cock. 

"Now where were we?" murmurs the alpha. 

The witch climbs onto the alpha's lap. Yuuri plays with the lapels of the suit, admiring the lines and fabric. "Oh, I was just thinking about how beautiful you look in your suit. How you should fuck me in your suit." 

The alpha lines his cock up to Yuuri's entrance, hands on the omega's hips. They slowly lower Yuuri down on Victor's length, each inch sinking, plunging into Yuuri's hole. "Not as beautiful as you are now." 

Yuuri throws his arms around Victor's shoulders, his mouth parted in silent moans as they suddenly move. There is nothing but the squelch and slap of their skin and the whispers of praise Victor lavishes against Yuuri's neck. He's clawing the back of the suit jacket, leaving marks for certain on the expensive fabric, but Victor doesn't seem to care. 

It's a sharp thrust and the sudden bite at his neck that leaves Yuuri arching in release, his hands desperately gripping Victor's suit jacket for life. 

They fall into the bed, the alpha leaving delicate, soothing licks around the renewed bite mark at Yuuri's neck. He's panting, and Yuuri mourns the loss of Victor's length filling him so deeply as the alpha pulls out and rolls off the condom, tying it off. 

Victor chucks the used condom into the bin and lies back down on the bed, arms gathering around the witch. He murmurs, deeply satisfied, "I should take off my suit." 

The witch sits up, hand reaching for another condom. With a wicked gleam in his eye, he huskily orders, "Lie back, Vitenka. We're not done yet."

* * *

"I've forgotten how good your stamina is," Victor mumbles, his words partially muffled by Yuuri's bare shoulder. 

Yuuri waves the last condom in front of the alpha's face. "Well, I must remind you then."

* * *

He arrives at work the next morning with a vague limp and his hair in a permanent mess. His neck is marred with love bites, and the turtleneck he wears can only hide some of them. Victor's scent lingers around him, marking him so well that no passerby can mistake Yuuri as a single omega. 

"Wow, did you get mauled by a tiger?" Phichit quips, not even bothering with a greeting. 

"Good morning to you," Yuuri says pointedly. "Is Yakov still hounding you for paperwork?" 

"Only for the unimportant forms and random files that haven't been touched since the seventies. But you're avoiding the question. Yuuri Katsuki, getting some!" 

Yuuri ignores the high five. With a smile on his lips, he rhetorically asks, "What? Are you twelve?" 

“That’s not a no,” Phichit sings. 

"Shoo, shoo. I have a ritual to attend to," the witch says, running a hand through his messy hair. "Got a package with my name on it and have an iPad to ruin." 

"Yakov is going to get you for paperwork if he hears that," Phichit points out, exiting the elevator on his floor. “See you around. Read group chat.” The elevator doors close in front of his face. 

Yuuri has already read group chat. It's the responding part that is difficult. Ten percent of it is important information. The rest of it is random nonsense. That includes the twenty pictures Phichit has sent about the random cat he saw this morning outside his apartment door. Sara has included some random facts about historical crime scenes, which is interesting but not relevant to the case. Yuuri gave up on counting after seeing the tenth Apocalypse meme Mila created. The last one involved a man drinking at a table with the banner edited to say,  _ the Apocalypse is happening. Change my mind.  _

Leo is part of the ten percent. He has already grabbed the old photo on Nikolai Plisetsky's driver license and aged it up by fifteen years. He's running the photo through every single database he can think of, hoping he can get a match. It's the same software he ran Victor through. 

Of course. Hopefully, Yuuri's method can help Leo narrow it down. Or even find an address. He opens the door to his temporary office and finds the FedEx package waiting on his desk. 

A bowl and a tablet is laid out on Yuuri's workstation. He cracks open the window and disables the smoke alarm on the ceiling. The janitors working at Interpol are going to kill him for this. 

The tablet is left open to a spinning digital globe. Google Maps. He places the prepared hexbag into the bowl and raids his drawers for scissors. The finger bone he's been waiting for has been placed inside of an evidence baggie. Thankfully, Mila has chosen to follow proper precautions this time around. 

He dumps the decaying finger bone into the bowl and lights the contents on fire. It's a few minutes of constant monitoring before the contents give way to ash. Yuuri tries to shove the bowl as close as possible to the open window. There's still a lingering smoke scent left behind in his office. 

With gloves on, he pours the ashes over the tablet. The ash moves this time around, controlling the map as it narrows down to a familiar address in Russia. 

This would be Sergei Petrovich. Not the antichrist.

Yuuri snaps a picture of it anyway with his work phone. It's not like he will have a chance to cast this ritual again. He might as well pump every bit of information he can get from it. Useful or useless. 

Google Maps zoom a bit out. It narrows again in a small town in Russia. This is perhaps Sergei's brother. But Yuuri takes a photo of that anyway. He needs to double check with Mickey's background report. 

Then Google Maps zoom way out, the globe appearing once again. The ashes flick it slightly, centering on North America. Then it narrows down to the United States. Midwest. The map zooms in after a minute, as if hesitating. Illinois. 

Then the map loads. Chicago. 

Then it stops, the magic collapsing. 

Yuuri snaps a picture and frowns. The antichrist must be blocked somewhat, but at least, they have a city this time. 

Chicago, Illinois. 

The witch strips off his gloves, tossing them into the trash. He turns and starts up his desktop computer. Leo has to see this information. It will stop him from running facial recognition on seven billion humans and help narrow the software down to merely a couple million people. 

He's sending off an email to Leo when Phichit barges in. 

The other witch coughs. "What did you do in here, Yuuri? It smells like you made a sacrifice to a pagan god." 

"Antichrist is in Chicago." Yuuri sprays a healthy amount of hand sanitizer over his work phone, wiping it down with a paper towel. The dusty iPad sits on the table. The witch will need the restroom to clean that mess. 

"Oh, I just wanted to grab you so I have backup while I meet Chris," Phichit explains, his chin gesturing to the door. "At the local library." 

* * *

The demon himself wears a distinguished black sweater with eyeglasses and a matching beret. It's ridiculous how undemonic he looks, especially surrounded by piles of nonfiction books. He speaks once the two witches sit down across from him. 

"I'm glad you both were able to come on such short notice," says the demon. "Lucifer has taken control of Hell since we've last seen each other." 

"So how are you doing, Chris?" The other witch asks. 

"Busy, busy, busy," the demon answers, leaning forward. "Do you know how hard it is to kiss the devil's ass while putting the most idiotic and incompetent demons in charge? He's smiting at least ten demons every day, and I have to make sure the smart, Lilith-supporting ones are killed first." 

Yuuri sort of feels bad for the demons that Chris hates. But it is not really his problem. He inquires, "Do you know what's his progress on finding the antichrist?" 

"It's second priority. He's busy figuring out how to free the Princes of Hell, but he has given the task to a small team of demons. Unfortunately, I don't know any of them that well yet," he says, voice touched with frustration. "He has narrowed down to a few time zones, because he can tell when the antichrist is asleep." 

"He can tell that?" Yuuri chokes, horrified by that thought. It's terrifying to think that the devil can psychically link up to a sixteen year old before Lucifer has even possessed him. 

"They're linked. They have a connection, because the antichrist is the rightful vessel for Lucifer. Anyway, the time zones he's suspected to be in are based on his sleep patterns. UTC 4, 5, 6, and 7 are the possibilities they're considering. I personally think he's located in either eastern United States or Canada. Based on how his parents look, he can blend in a lot more in North America than South America." 

Yuuri and Phichit exchange a glance. It matches up to what Yuuri found. Chicago, Illinois belongs to UTC 5. 

Phichit suggests, "Well, you got to slow them down." 

"I'm trying. I'm having my assistant pull strings and old contracts I have under my control. But if things go south, if Lucifer finds out, I'm screwed." He pauses, tapping at his chin. "It's more than that. He's going to cut off my head and put it on a stick to make sure no one ever betrays him again." 

The other witch pats his hand. "Then you do what it takes to slow him down." 

"There's more." 

That doesn't sound good. 

"What exactly is more?" Yuuri prompts. 

"Pay close attention to the news. Lucifer, once he releases his old guard and the fallen angels, is going to release the full power of the Four Horsemen." 

The witch furrows his eyebrows. "Including Victor?" 

The demon's eyes briefly widen in surprise, his head snapping at Yuuri. "So you know." 

"We know," Phichit corrects. 

"Well, Victor is another story," Chris says, his voice dropping into an even quieter whisper. "He's a Horseman, yes. But from what I gathered over conversations I've shared with him for over the last eight hundred or so years, he's more than a Horseman. I don't know what that means, but maybe one of you can figure it out." 

The witch leans forward. "Do you think he can stop the Apocalypse?" 

"I don't know, but with how old he is and how much more knowledgeable he is compared to us, he has got to know something."

* * *

Leo, with Yuuri's help and Guang Hong's eyes, is able to find an actual hit on social media regarding Nikolai Plisetsky. It's several years old, taken in 2014. Nikolai Plisetsky was walking in the background of a selfie taken by a then-teenage girl in front of the Sears Tower. She posted the photo on Facebook. 

The two hunters and witches gather around in the conference room, trying to come up with a proposal to move the entire team to the United States in the interest of finding the antichrist sooner without having to travel back and forth between Europe and America. 

"Uh, guys." Guang Hong looks between the two witches. "It's called the Willis Tower now." 

"Willis, Sears," Phichit pauses. "It's the same building located in Chicago and once was the tallest building in the world. I've been there once in the nineties." 

"He dragged me there for a photo at the highest point," Yuuri remembers. "It was windy that day." 

"Yeah, and I still have the photos in my closet somewhere," Phichit adds. Then he realizes they're getting off-topic. "Okay, but we are somewhat certain that Chicago is where they still are at. After all these years." 

"The antichrist for sure. But if we track down the grandfather, we should be able to find the grandson. Mila did a brief psych analysis on Nikolai based on what she heard from his coworkers and his former neighbors. It's not likely he would abandon his grandson." Guang Hong dismisses the software's pop-up window, asking if this face is Nikolai Plisetsky. 

"Well," Phichit pauses. He glances at the computer monitors and questions, "Can't we narrow the locations?" 

"What do you mean?" Leo inquires. 

"He's probably not living in the places with a lot of cameras, if we can't find him through surveillance. Like shopping districts, courthouses, government buildings, banks. I'm thinking somewhere that has less people. Maybe residential." 

"Well, I can't really narrow that down," Leo says, biting his lips in thought. "I'll just have to keep pinging traffic cams." 

"If only someone's contact can simply give us the antichrist's address." Phichit does not look at Yuuri, his mouth blowing air. 

"Don't look at me." Yuuri doesn't know why Victor could give an answer to whether or not Nikolai Plisetsky is alive, but claims giving the address or even a hint of the antichrist's location will drastically change the timeline. The witch did not ask for more information.

* * *

Yakov reportedly did not take the suggestion of moving the entire operation to America for one teenager very well. That's all according to Georgi, who had the difficult task of convincing his boss it would be in the best interest of Interpol to do so. Reportedly, Seung-gil is not happy with the idea either, but he wouldn't throw a fit if the Apocalypse case was dropped from his workload. He supposedly still has to work through a backlog of dead drug dealers. 

Yakov Feltsman finally relents five days later when Guang Hong manages to find a more recent photo on Instagram dated two months ago. He takes Seung-gil off the team, claiming the vampire will be on stand-by mode and only needed in person if a dead body appears. 

Meanwhile, the rest of the team is given a notice to pack their bags and to box up important items in their temporary offices. Each box is marked and cataloged by Georgi, who will take it down to the airport to be shipped to Chicago tomorrow night. Mila is charged with wrapping up the rest of the background check on Nikolai Plisetsky's life in Russia, her deadline today. Then she has to fly to Chicago as soon as she's done to make contact with the local authorities. 

Yuuri has to pack up his workstation and the ingredients he brought to the office. He doesn't bother with Georgi's boxes. He can stuff everything into his coat and portal to Illinois. The anti-human trafficking task force will get the results of the rituals he's running for them. They've been looking for a missing boy from London. 

Then he has to face Victor, explaining the realities of his job and privately wondering how they are going to make their courtship work. Especially with this great distance between Spain and the United States and Japan, but then. . . 

"That won't be a bother at all," Victor says, washing up Makkachin's doggy bowl. "Yuuri, it takes only a minute for me to fly from Japan to England. No time at all if I bother to tap into my chronokinesis. You're not asking for that much." 

The witch pauses, the knife poses over green onions. "You certain?" 

"Very certain. You're talking to someone who can circle the globe a dozen times without having a second tick by," the alpha points out. "If you're really uncomfortable with the idea of me flying us to Japan and to Spain and to America all the time, we can book a hotel room and stay there." 

The witch doesn't know what to say. That sounds even more complicated than just having Victor fly them both to Japan every single day. The hotel bills will be astronomical, climbing a hundred dollars per night even with Interpol reimbursing some of it. There is absolutely no way he is staying in a dingy motel room in Chicago while they can both stay in a beautiful Japanese-style bedroom with a grand bathroom with a jacuzzi tub and an ocean view. His financial sensibilities will never allow it. 

"Yuuri?" Victor raises an eyebrow. "I'm being serious." 

"I'll have to think about it," the witch faintly responds. 

"Chicago has some nice hotels," the alpha offhandedly mentions. "Four Seasons has a great view of Lake Michigan. Excellent view at night. Or we can stay at the Peninsula." 

Yuuri frantically shakes his head. "That's expensive." 

The alpha pouts. "What's the point of having money if you don't have a little bit of fun?" 

"Victor, there is a difference between staying at an expensive hotel and staying at home in Matsuura. I like Matsuura." 

Victor fills the doggy bowl with water and places it next to Makkachin's doggy bed. "Fine. Then perhaps for a honeymoon." 

"Victor!" Yuuri protests. 

"Our fourth wedding then? We should have a wedding every single year." 

His alpha, Yuuri realizes, is the most ridiculous being in the world. But as he listens to Victor throwing out more and more suggestions, he laughs and knows he wouldn't have it any other way. 

"A wedding in Austria with a wedding march," Victor muses. "You in the veil and I at the end of the aisle. Or the reverse, if you want. Just like how it happened in the movie with Julie Andrews." 

Yuuri snorts. "You know we will have to get married first before we can even have a second wedding?" 

The other man taps his chin. "Alright," he says, appraising Yuuri as if gauging his every microexpression. "You can pick anywhere in the world. Where do you want a wedding? The first wedding?" 

"Hasetsu," the witch answers without hesitation. "And if not there, then Matsuura. Out on the beach." 

The alpha smiles, his eyes drawn away from Yuuri's face by the familiar clicks of Makkachin's paws against the wooden floors. "What do you think, Makka? A beach wedding. You will be the ring bearer. Or would you have Vicchan do it?" 

The poodle growls at the mention of Vicchan. 

Victor laughs. "Okay. Then assuming both of you want to be the ring bearer. . . The ring bearer shall be the dog who spent the entire month before the wedding not eating my shoes." 

"Victor, that might encourage one of them to sabotage the other by eating your shoes and framing the other. It's better if they each take one ring," logically concludes the witch. He has seen Vicchan sneakily dig up an unloaded handgun and place it back into the possession of a Yutopia guest wanted by authorities forty years ago. That gun was the assault weapon the police were unable to locate until they arrested the perpetrator. With the smoking gun in his possession, he was on a speedy legal trial to jail. Makkachin may not be as clever. Or maybe she is. 

Either way, it's not a war he wants to see. Victor's shoes, for certain, will lose in the end. 

The alpha wraps his arms around Yuuri, nuzzling the back of the witch's neck. "My mate is so clever." 

"And mine is incredibly sappy." He places the knife down, his neck arching for Victor to scent. Their lips meet, and Yuuri can't help but smile as his heart soars. 

"As long as I'm yours."

* * *

"I don't really like bothering you to fetch me back and forth between Japan, Spain, and the United States. You're crossing an ocean almost every time you travel," Yuuri says, his eyes shut as Victor combs through the witch's messy hair. 

"Like I said before. It's not bothering me. I still think the option of a hotel room is perfectly acceptable as well. We will need at least two rooms. If we stayed at a hotel." 

"Because of Makkachin?" 

"Well, she likes the beds at the hotel. That way she has enough room to run around in the suite and watch old reruns of shows before she gets bored and decides to shadow travel back to Matsuura. Maybe if I go shopping and buy shoes, she won’t get too bored.” 

The witch smiles. “But we haven’t decided about getting a hotel room in Chicago.” 

“I’m planning ahead.” A pause. “But we’re not staying in a motel. I draw the lines there.”

* * *

Victor doesn’t even blink at the prospect of dropping Yuuri off in Chicago instead of Lyon, France. Dressed in his scrubs and worn running shoes, he sneaks a peck on Yuuri’s cheek before flying off to begin his morning shift at the hospital. Unfortunately, Phichit happens to notice them from across the street. 

“I say that operation is going very well.” 

The witch opens the door of the restaurant. In a quieter voice, he glumly replies, “Not that well. He’s being helpful, but he is not actively fighting against the End of the World as we know it.” 

“Better than what Chris has. Victor has been leaving him on read,” Phichit says, pulling out his phone and adjusting Arthur on his neck. He pauses in his step, deliberately ignoring the impatient hostess waving her hand for their attention. “He’s about to text something like. . . ‘W.T.F. Why the hell are you not answering, bitch?’ Or something like that.” 

“That’s not going to help. I think it’s just going to make Victor leave him on read for the rest of eternity.” Yuuri shakes his head. 

The hostess, annoyed, says, “Hello? Okay, how many in your party?” 

The witch cuts in before Phichit can say anything. Or maybe curse her shoes. “We already have a reservation under the name of Emil Nekola.” 

The hostess nods, picking up two menus. “Right this way, gentlemen.” The woman leads them off to the side, pausing on the first step of the stairs. She then walks three steps ahead of them, heading to the second story. “Will you be expecting anyone else?” she inquires politely. 

“No,” Phichit answers. “Just a party of three.” 

She stops in front of a doorway to a private room. “Mr. Nekola is waiting for you.” She hands the menu to the two witches. “Anything to drink?” 

“Lemonade.” 

“Water with ice,” Yuuri orders. 

“I’ll be right with you.” Then she leaves, adjusting her black uniform as she goes. 

“Agent Chulanont. Agent Katsuki,” Emil says, standing up from the round table. He flashes a grin and offers his hand for a handshake to both of the witches. “I’m glad you were able to come.” 

“Phichit. And Yuuri prefers Yuuri,” the other witch corrects. Arthur jumps onto the table with nary a sound. “And my hamster will never resist the offering of free food.” 

The FBI agent laughs. “Of course. It’s all on the Bureau’s card. Please sit. Order what you like.” He pauses, sitting back down in his chair. “I’m really glad Interpol went out of its way to contact the local authorities this time around. Last time, they were butting heads with a drug deal involving the local mob. Right hand versus left hand, or so I’ve heard.” 

Emil Nekola, an omega and a paladin, has offered translation help back when Yuuri was stuck and surrounded by people speaking a language he didn’t know. According to Victor, his Spanish was Americanized. Yuuri has taken the time this morning to do a last-minute Googling on paladins. The subject of Camelot appears, and he also found a lot of results for paladins in video games. He wants to kick himself for not taking the time to do a deep research regarding paladins. But then again, he didn’t expect to see Emil again. The FBI is a rather large organization with thousands of agents. 

“I’m thinking a nice big breakfast would be good,” Phichit declares, popping open the menu. “Something fattening. Steak and salad.” 

Emil raises no protests at the bill. He merely turns to the other witch and asks, “Well, Yuuri. Have you decided yet?” 

“I already ate, so I’m not ordering anything.” After a flip of the menu, Yuuri changes his mind upon seeing a sandwich. “Actually, I think I’ll order a sandwich to-go for lunch. You don’t have to put it on the Bureau’s card, Emil.” 

He laughs. “I don’t tend to spend someone else’s money, so we might as well splurge a little on ourselves here. We’re putting the sandwich on the card.”

Yuuri warns, “Don’t get in trouble.” He remembers a story where someone got in trouble for spending six hundred dollars on expensive sandwiches from a fancy restaurant in downtown Paris and tried to get a reimbursement. Human Resources had a little talk with the agent in question. No one has seen him since, but they have appreciated the sandwiches. 

“I won’t.”

Phichit changes the subject. “So I thought you work in cold cases, Emil.” 

The agent nods. “I do, but when I heard about a liaison job with Interpol’s supernatural special task force, I had to accept. I think my boss was happy about getting rid of me for a while. I haven’t been putting all my effort in reopening and reinvestigating the cold cases lately, and she thought I might have been burning out.” At the identical alarmed expressions on the witches’ faces, he quickly backtracks. “But I’ll put my full effort towards helping you in your case. I have read a brief memo about who you’re looking for thanks to Mr. Popovich.” 

“Then you understand that you must be careful?” Yuuri inquires. He adds, “The demons are also looking for both of them. Especially the teenager.” 

“I do understand. Which is why I’ve relocated my office to your building, so I do not work with sensitive information in the presence of coworkers who do not have anti-possession tattoos.” Emil pauses. “It’s unfortunate, but the bare minimum requirement for preventing demonic possession is anti-possession jewelry. Some agents have tattoos, but not enough of them do. I'm one of the agents who do." He tugs at his collar, revealing a black anti-possession tattoo on his shoulder. 

“That’s vigilant of you.”

“I’ve worked on supernatural cold cases before, Phichit,” the paladin explains, flashing a brief smile at the waitress bringing him a glass of water. “Ah, thank you.” Looking back at the two witches, he continues, "Ten years at the Bureau. I had twenty-nine demon cases in all those years. The problem with demons is that they have better memories than we do. They notice someone poking around, and they either hide their crimes better or they decide to leave a visible warning." 

“Wow, ten years,” Yuuri echoes. The witch appraises the paladin. For him to work at the FBI for ten years, he has to be at least thirty-five years old now. The minimum age to work at the FBI is twenty-five. He doesn’t look a day over his early twenties. He’s not going to ask whether or not being a paladin gives the benefits of prolonged youth in front of Phichit, who may or may not know Emil is a supernatural creature. He’s also not going to ask if a paladin can be possessed by a demon. Yuuri, even with all of his lack of social graces, knows better than to accidentally out Emil. 

Helping Arthur to a sip of lemonade from the straw, Phichit inquires, “Did you do anything before being a federal agent?” 

“Was a beat cop for Chicago a couple years. Don’t really remember those years. They went by really fast.” Emil takes a sip from his glass of water. “So how many years did you two work at Interpol?” 

“I joined a year after Yuuri did. He was already working in the research department before he moved to the supernatural department,” Phichit replies. “So. Thirty years for both of us. Give or take a few years.” 

Emil whistles. “Neither of you look a day over twenty-five.” 

“We’re witches,” Yuuri tells him. It’s the answer and the reason all in one. 

It’s after they’ve been served when Yuuri’s smartphone begins to vibrate. It’s his work phone, but Yuuri does not want to answer it in a conversation. 

Then Phichit's phone rings twice. The witch grabs his phone and unlocks it. He suddenly says, "Yuuri, look at your phone. It's from Leo." 

The witch does. And he finds a surveillance photo of Nikolai Plisetsky entering a church dated last Sunday. There are dozens of photos just like this, and suddenly, the witch knows. 

They need to attend church this Sunday.


	3. Samuel III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't Wait Up by Robert DeLong

“You look like a Dad.” That is the first thing coming out of the other witch's mouth, not even a good morning or a pleasant greeting. It's like Phichit has forgotten his manners or something like that. 

"What?" 

"A fanny pack? Really?" 

Figures Phichit will be roasting him over the fanny pack. Yuuri has enough common sense to not wear a thick coat or even the appearance of it on this warm Sunday morning. He sighs and accepts the resulting camera flash of this immortalized moment. "The service starts at ten." 

Thankfully, the other witch speaks of it no further. 

The two witches casually walk towards St. Augustine's Church. 

"What are we? Couple? Friends?" Phichit asks, referring to their cover story. "Cult members? We can pretend to be Jehovah's Witnesses." 

The witch sticks his tongue out in disgust. "I'm not going to try that cover story. I don't know enough about that. We just stick to the old cover story. We are college students from the University of Chicago, trying to turn a new leaf in our partying and drinking habits. That's all." 

"That's so believable," Phichit says with sarcasm. "I'm the one with a religious family, and I miss home after one semester at the University of Chicago. I drag you along so I don't have to go alone." A pause. "Now what do you think about this cover story?" 

"More believable than mine," the witch admits. But Phichit is better at imagination and creativity than Yuuri is, especially with all those years of writing  _ The King and the Skater _ fanfics. He pauses in his step and stares at the two-story church in front of them. "Well, here goes nothing." He tries not to adjust the earpiece tucked in his ear. 

"Leo in position," the hunter announces over the communication line, possibly lurking around the parking lot this very moment. "I'll start running license plates after the sermon begins." 

"Guang Hong?" Mickey says. "Check?" 

"Perimeter secured." 

The two witches make their way inside the church. It's well lit with florescent lights glowing overhead. Rows and rows of cushioned pews face a single priest dressed in his cassock. A stereotype of a strict-faced unamused Catholic priest Yuuri has seen many times on television because of Phichit. He has already begun the service, his hands briefly beckoning them both in while his voice steadily talks into the microphone. 

Yuuri sees Nikolai Plisetsky first. The old grandfather sits in the third row, close to the exit. There is no teenager sitting near him. No sign of his grandson. 

Not yet. 

The witch does not keep his eyes on the old man. It's too awkward, and people will ask questions if he stares at someone too long. Instead, he tunes into the priest's sermon, pretending to be absolutely normal like everyone else and not an Interpol agent working on a Sunday. 

". . . Friendship. True friendship must be cherished. It's a plant in its own way. It’s a seed that every person carries. You must water it with love and care. You must expose it to sunlight, casting away the shadows of deceit. We can look at examples of true friendship in the Bible. Our best example is Ruth and Naomi, the story of a devout and obedient daughter-in-law who loved her mother-in-law. 'Do not urge me to leave you' was what she said in the Book of Ruth. But we have already gone through the Book of Ruth and the importance of friendship, of keeping friends with love and acceptance. We finished the section on Ruth and Naomi last week, so we can now turn our attention to another important friendship." 

Yuuri grabs a brochure in front of him. He flips through the pages absentmindedly, his glasses pushed up high on his nose so he can spy on Nikolai Plisetsky through his eyelashes. 

The priest continues, flipping a page in a book, "Today we should look upon another true friendship. This time, we will examine the relationship between David and Jonathan. Their relationship unfolds in the first Book of Samuel." A pause. "A bit of background on these two extraordinary men for those who may be hearing of these friends for the first time. By all means, they should have been rivals. They should have been enemies from the beginning. Jonathan's father is Saul, who is the King of Israel. However, David is the true king, a divine contender to the throne." 

"I'm running driver licenses and their photo IDs. None of them are popping up," Mickey says, checking in. "Do you have eyes on Plisetsky?" 

Yuuri leans into Phichit, pretending to speak to the witch. "We do." 

The priest coughs pointedly, evidently catching Yuuri disrespectfully speaking right in the middle of his sermon. He doesn't call it out. "In chapter seventeen, David slew Goliath. Then comes the meeting of David and Jonathan. From the moment Jonathan laid eyes on David, he knew he was seeing the true King of Israel. We can see the beginning of this friendship in chapter eighteen of Samuel. And I quote, 'Jonathan became one in spirit with David, and he loved him as himself.'" 

"There is a chance he might have walked here. We will just have to follow him home," Guang Hong points out, the communication line creaking back to life. "We just have to be subtle." 

". . . There is so much we can learn from David and Jonathan. But I think we can see so much of Jonathan's love of David in his actions. He doesn't need to speak to show how much he cared for David. His father, King Saul, wanted David dead, but Jonathan, loyal to the true King of Israel, instead defied his father's orders and warned David instead." A pause. "Doesn't it take much courage to defy your parents? That's much less than the rule of law spoken by a king. Can we imagine how much love and courage Jonathan had to shield and protect David from his father?" 

Yuuri glandes up curiously when Nikolai stands up from his seat. His torso is bowed, his knees bent as he hurries towards the exit. 

Phichit leans into Yuuri's ear, pretending to whisper. "I have the subject on the move." 

"I see him," says Guang Hong. "Cloning cell phone now in five, four. . ." A pause. "Oh, I'm so sorry, sir!" 

"It's no problem," the deep voice replies in English. Nikolai Plisetsky's voice still contains accents retained from a long life spent in St. Petersburg. "Please watch where you go." 

"Cell phone copied," Mickey speaks. "I see only five phone numbers this phone regularly communicates with. Inbound and outbound phone calls. Contact list has. . . a Yura, Otabek, Lilia. . ." 

"See if you can ping the other phones," Leo suggests. "If they're smartphones, we can get an exact location. Maybe one of them is his grandson." 

Mickey types something. "They're all located in Chicago. Two of the other phones are currently located in a neighborhood. I'll text the address to Leo. I'm currently following the subject. He's on foot." 

The two witches quietly stand up from the pew, slowly making their leave. 

The priest notices this. In a pained expression, he loudly says, "Though very few of us can keep a friendship as true as David and Jonathan, I would like to remind you all of a verse. This verse David said after he heard of Jonathan's death in battle. In a lament, he cries, '“How the mighty have fallen in battle! Jonathan lies slain on your heights. I grieve for you, Jonathan my brother; you were very dear to me. Your love for me was wonderful, more wonderful than that of women. . ." 

They close the door behind them. It's some distance before they tap into the radio line. 

"We're outside now. Mickey, we can take a couple of locations for the phones." 

The radio cracks to life. 

The werewolf orders, "Okay, I have an address that Google tells me is a ballet studio. I only need one person to go. Lilia's Ballet Studio. I'll text the address." 

"I'll take it." Raising an eyebrow at Phichit, he tells him, "My cover story is a dad looking for dance classes for their kid." 

"Great one." Phichit shoots him a thumbs up. "I'll see you later." 

The witch nods, reaching the sidewalk. He waves down a taxi. Two of them ignore him, and finally, a third stops and brakes. Yuuri pulls open the navigator door and says, "Lilia's Ballet Studio, please." 

"Which one?" The taxi driver puffs, smoking on a cigarette and casually blowing rings out the cracked window. 

"Uh," Yuuri pauses, grabbing his phone and noticing the new text from Mickey. He desperately rolls down the window with his other hand. "The one on Roosevelt. How far away is that?" 

The driver inputs the address in his phone. He answers, "Fifteen minutes in this traffic." Then he slowly pulls away from the curb. 

Yuuri can't get out of the cab fast enough with all the thick layers of smoke and cigarette scents that will stain his clothes for a long time. He hands cash, and the driver speeds away. 

Lilia's Ballet Studio is a neat, open-window ballet studio with sleek lines and impeccable interior design. Students mill around, practicing their jumps or warming up. 

Yuuri can't imagine being one of them. Especially with all the windows. It will be like dancing in a fishbowl, every move seen by a pedestrian merely passing by. But perhaps it's part of the appeal. The ballet studio needs not a single ad to advertise itself. 

He opens the front door, unsure of what he's supposed to be looking for. The ballet dancers are majorly girls. Some parents coo and awe over their toddlers awkwardly bobble in step to their instructor. Yuuri doesn't stare at that scene for too long. He forcibly turns his head to the other section, looking for a male teenager. Sixteen years old. Instead, he finds himself approached by an older woman. 

"Have a child? Interested in enrolling?" She says, her eyes locked upon the witch. She appears to be in her forties, but the wrinkles on her neck says otherwise. She's even older than she appears, standing straight like a ballerina. Like Minako in a way. Smartly dressed, she has her dark hair wrapped up tight in a bun. The sort of no-nonsense Yuuri has found in some of his teachers back in Hasetsu. 

"A baby," Yuuri lies. "I don't think she can dance yet, but I like to consider igniting her passion while she's young. It's still too early." 

Her green eyes unsettle the witch. "Are you thinking of using ballet as your child's extracurricular in preparation for college admissions?" 

"What?" Yuuri chokes. "People do that already? Even if their child is this young?" 

"Sadly, yes. It's never good to have a passion forced upon a young child," the woman says, relaxing slightly. Her hand reaches out to Yuuri. "My name is Lilia Baranovskaya. I was once the prima ballerina for Bolshoi Ballet. I now run this studio. And the other one in Chicago." 

"Why two?" 

"This one is more for performances," she explains patiently. "The other is for my more serious students. The ones with potential. I don't take anyone. I take only the best of the best, the ones with the passion strong enough to ignite and spark. Anyone can have technique, but few can bare their souls to the world.” She pauses, eyes critically examining Yuuri. “Did you have a dancing background?" 

"No, the most dancing I've done is a class in high school," Yuuri answers. He remembers Takeshi and Yuuko, spending a lot of time dancing together by practicing ridiculous lifts. He has done a lot of pole dancing, but he doubts Lilia would consider it as dancing. She seems quite uptight. 

"Hmm. I've been running auditions for  _ The Firebird. _ For a moment, I hoped you were a ballet dancer. You have the physique for the bird," the former ballerina notes. She carries on, gesturing Yuuri to an office. Then she shuts the door behind them. “Please sit.” 

Yuuri does and watches Lilia take the swiveling chair behind the desk. 

The woman shuffles some papers. “Now.” She pauses, “I can set your child up for a few beginner’s classes. They’re affordable, because they’re taught by my students, who have spent years training in ballet. These students have gone on to win competitions such as the Youth America Grand Prix and the USA International Ballet Competition. That’s just to name a few. One student instructor is currently a gymnast on the Olympic team for South Korea. She’s expected to compete in 2020 Japan.”

“Wow. That’s quite impressive.” A pause as Yuuri reaches into his fanny pack and pulls out his badge. He slides his badge gently across her desk. “But I’m afraid I’m not actually looking for beginner’s classes. I’m Yuuri Katsuki, an agent from Interpol.” 

The former ballerina raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t even look surprised, but Yuuri has figured out she has a tight lid on her expressions. She does not give away anything, not even a hint of what she thinks. She picks up his badge, turns it at several angles, then slides it back to the witch, deeming it authentic. “What can I do for you, Agent Katsuki?” 

Yuuri pulls out his phone, looking for the surveillance photo of Nikolai Plisetsky in the group chat. He asks, "Do you have male students that are fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen years old?" 

Lilia tilts her head. "Some," she answers, suspicion clouding her eyes. 

The witch locates the photo and presents it to the former ballerina. "Do you know who this is?" 

A slight smile blooms across her face. "Yes. Nick." Then she frowns, eyes flicking up at Yuuri. "Is he in trouble?" 

"Not from Interpol." A pause. Yuuri ponders for a brief second. "He is believed to be on the run from an organization. Interpol believes he and his grandson are in great danger." 

"Is it the mob?" 

"Close to that." He doesn't know how Lilia will react if she finds out it's demons who are after the antichrist. "Is Nick's grandson your student?" 

"Yes, Yura." After a moment, she corrects, "Yuri is his real name. One u, not like your name with two. He's one of my best students, but he is not good at expression. All fine technique, but the audience can’t feel his soul.”

Yuuri pushes the spark of excitement down. “Do you know where he is?” 

“Club dancing.” There’s a wrinkle of disgust. “Unfortunately, I do not pay as well as the tips he receives while dancing at nightclubs. He brings in a lot of money. Him and his friend. They’re a duo act.” 

“Do you know which nightclub?” 

“The Playhouse. It’s a few blocks down. They’ll be performing tonight. I think the performance will be at ten o’clock and last for two hours,” Lilia informs, her words tinged with heavy disapproval. “It’s casual. Filled to the brim with all those unruly dance styles. Twerking, Cabbage Patch, Running Man. A lot of break dancing. People who won’t understand the true beauty of ballet and find it boring. Absolutely no classical technique.” She mutters some more comment under her breath, as if scandalized. 

Yuuri does not comment on this. He’s just glad he did not say he knows how to dance with a pole. She would probably take personal offense at the idea of pole dancing.

* * *

Mickey manages to complete a quick background check on the address "Nick" lived at. In the conference room of the office building they temporarily took over, he briefs the entire team of his findings with a full PowerPoint presentation. 

Yuuri has no idea how he found the time to whip that up. 

"Nick Perry, born in 1962 according to the records compiled by the United States and the state of Illinois. One decade of tax records. I don't know how anyone from the IRS did not notice him. It was as if he suddenly appeared in 2004. Out of nowhere. He's an American citizen, and he does claim a child tax credit on his tax return. One grandson. His name is Yuri Perry, sixteen years old." 

A photo appears behind Mickey, the slides shifting. A blonde boy with his arms raised in a ballet pose. 

"This was taken from an Instagram account dedicated to Chicago ballet dancers." He pauses, and he hands a sheet of paper to Yakov. "I've also tracked down all five phone numbers Nikolai Plisetsky regularly contacts. One is Lilia Baranovskaya, the former prima ballerina. Quite prestigious, she has her own Wikipedia page. She has an incredibly long and established history. Never married. Yuuri has already briefly questioned her." 

That's his cue. Yuuri nods and speaks, "Yes, she does not seem aware of the Apocalypse." Then he sums up everything she said to him and then reiterates his impression of the ballerina. Strict, seemingly normal, extreme distaste regarding pop culture. He tries not to fidget too hard under Yakov’s gaze. 

Mickey retakes the floor. "Another number is for a Yuri. We are assuming that is the teenager we've been looking for. His phone is currently located at the same address Nick Perry has for his tax returns. Nick owns the suburban house with four bedrooms and two bathrooms. Swimming pool in the back according to Google Maps. He pays property taxes every year without fail. He has no car registration." 

"What are the other three phone numbers?" Emil inquires, flipping through the briefs Mickey printed out. 

The werewolf shoots a glare for the interruption. But he answers anyway. "One is to an accountant. No text messages. Just phone calls. The fourth phone number is registered to his neighbor right next door. Regular communications regarding neighborhood watch and gossip. Just pages and pages about what Doug and Terry across the street are doing and their daughter. A lot of complaints about the dog down the street, because no one picks up after him." 

"Moving on," Yakov gruffly orders. He's not too interested about the small issues in a suburban neighborhood. 

"The last phone number is registered to an Otabek Altin. According to bank records, he wires seven hundred dollars to Nick Perry on the second day of every month for the last two years. Tax returns confirm he's their renter. Twenty years old according to government records. Filed taxes for the last two years. Owns a motorcycle according to the local DMV. The job he listed on his tax return is music entertainer, and he has an Instagram with a decent following." Mickey hits a button on his clicker, the projector switching to a screenshot of Altin’s social media. 

"The antichrist is all over it," Sara says. 

It's true. This account doesn't have too many photographs. Just twenty in all, but the focus is almost always on Yuri or the scenery or a screenshot of sheet music.

* * *

"Here you go." Phichit tosses something black with thin strings. "This is something fitting for the club." 

The witch yanks the fabric off his head, recognition hitting him. "I'm not wearing fishnets, Phichit," he huffs, chucking the fabric at Phichit’s bed. "Why are you giving me all the skimpy outfits?" 

"Maybe cause I don't want to see you dressed as a dad," the other witch replies, tearing through his closet. "You think what you wear is skimpy, but no, I'm worse. I'm going in a tank top in the best v-dip ever." 

"A what?" Yuuri sputters, horrified by that thought. 

"Booty shorts." 

"I don't know this person," he claims, turning to Mila who stands in the hotel room amused. "You ready for this?" 

Mila cocks her head. She waves down at her outfit, gesturing to her backless sleeveless blouse with a short skirt. "I'm born ready," she declares. "I'm just waiting for Phichit to pick something out." 

"You've seen the photo of the antichrist?" 

"Blonde hair, scowl on his face, moody little brat," she says, having not attended the team meeting earlier. "I can already tell. Tell Phichit that I will be driving off without him if he isn't ready in ten minutes. And Yuuri, you really shouldn't be wearing a polo shirt." She ducks out of the hotel room. 

Silence. 

"Is the polo shirt really that bad?" 

The witch shuffles out of the bathroom, wearing a gaudy green high heels. "Yes, it's really that bad." 

While Phichit isn't looking, Yuuri forces on a simple black v-neck Phichit threw at him minutes ago and tosses out the polo shirt. He looks down at his cargo pants and frowns. Maybe he should go with better pants. Suitable pants. 

"Tight pants," Phichit says, as if reading Yuuri's mind. He ventures out of the bathroom with fishnets in hand. "Really tight pants." 

Yuuri opens up his fanny pack. "Look, I don't know if I have anything from my college years. I might have left them in here. I might have not." 

"You need tight skinny jeans. Or else you're going to look really bad and stick out like a sore thumb," Phichit shouts, hollering from inside the bathroom. "Ah, I ripped my fishnets!" 

"Keep them. It's a fashion statement."

"That's not fashion!" 

Yuuri rolls his eyes. He has no idea how it isn't fashion. He has heard of expensive pants that had been mauled by a tiger. They were ugly pants, costing two hundred dollars a pair. What is fashion? He doesn't know. 

Mila is still waiting for them twelve minutes later with the engine running in front of the hotel. She sticks her head out of the driver's window. "Hey, I said ten minutes. Not twelve, slowpokes. But Yuuri, what an improvement. Still can't ditch the fanny pack?" 

Phichit climbs into the backseat of the SUV. "He said the other option is a backpack. Or he can put his coat back on." 

Mila squints. "Do you have to go dancing with the backpack?" 

"Yes," Yuuri insists. "I'm not leaving it out of my sight. Do you know what weapons I have in there?" 

"Fair point. Comms are in the box. Mickey is already there and texting me complaints. Did you read the orders from Yakov?" 

"Uh, no." Yuuri did not check his phone. 

"Well, he says only to keep surveillance and to not approach the antichrist. He wants us to eliminate any demons we see without questioning first." Mila makes a turn and floors the gas pedal, driving far above the speed limit. "So you gotta keep your eyes peeled." 

"We know." Phichit shoves in his earpiece. "Testing, one, two, three." 

"I hear you loud and clear, Phichit." Yuuri pushes the earpiece a little deeper into his ear. "Testing, apple, orange, pear." 

"I heard that," Mila confirms, tapping her own comm. "We should be hitting Mickey’s radio range in five, four, three, two, one.” She makes a wide swerve past Lilia’s ballet studio. 

“A crumb on my—”

That's Mickey in his complaining tone. 

The radio coughs, a burst of static in their ears. 

“Ah!” the vampire says, wincing. “Hang on. I think I just went out of his range.” She makes another right turn on a red light, cutting across a honking car. 

“Mila, you don’t have to drive like you’re in Russia,” the witch complains, feeling his stomach turn a little. He grips the car door, his knuckles a pale white. He didn't eat very much for dinner, having turned down a nice meal in Matsuura with Victor in favor of work. “Americans! They don't do everything right, but most of them follow traffic laws!" 

"I'm no American. I'm Russian," Mila announces. 

"Russians can still get traffic tickets in America," Yuuri points out, clutching his stomach as Mila suddenly brakes in front of a nightclub. Yuuri can't get out of the SUV quick enough. 

In fact, Mila is actually driving worse than how she drives in Russia. She rolls down the navigator window and says, "Next time when I said ten minutes, I mean ten minutes!" She speeds off once Phichit slams the door shut. 

"Fuck, she's an insane driver," the other witch mumbles, touching the ground reverently. Then he slowly stands up, cracking his back. "Alright, cover charge. You got the money to get passed the bouncers?" 

"Money?" Yuuri raises an eyebrow. He has never needed money for cover charge in his entire life. He strolls straight up to the bouncers, confidently marching pass lines of young people. He hopes the mating bite is hidden as he casually arches his neck, his scent lingering in the air. Most of the bites from Victor faded. 

The bouncers part, letting Yuuri through the front door. One of them suddenly throws his arms out in front of Phichit. "Hey, cover charge or it's the back of the freeloader line for you." 

"Oh, uh." Phichit awkwardly chuckles, his hands diving into his tiny pockets. He pulls out a wad of cash. "Good enough for you?" 

The bouncers look among themselves. Then they let him pass after a long moment of quiet consideration. 

The nightclub plays some electronic pop, the music grating and obnoxious. Yuuri misses the eighties. That's when they had the best music instead of the synthetic songs and voices they have now. He loses Phichit somewhere in the crowds, eyes quickly finding the bar. He makes a beeline towards the bar stools, hoping no one drags him off for a dance. 

He orders club soda, sitting down and scanning his surroundings. The bar is not the best place to see the entire club. No, that would be the VIP box on the second floor, overlooking the dance floor. But from here, he can see the stage surrounded by big black music boxes and an empty DJ booth. He discreetly checks his phone. It's five minutes from ten o'clock. 

"Here you go," says the bartender, folding his arms in front of Yuuri. Perhaps, he has no one else to serve for the moment. "Anything else?" 

"Who is performing tonight?" 

"A duo. Decently popular. DJ Beka is on the music. He partnered with a dancer." The bartender then mutters, "Excuse me." He follows the bill held by a patron a few stools down. 

"Took me a while to find you," says a voice. Emil Nekola gestures to the bar stool next to the witch. "I hope you don't mind." His hand nearly reaches to his ear, but he holds himself back. "These are far tinier than what I'm used to." 

"Oh." Yuuri doesn't know what the Bureau has, but it can't possibly be clunky. He knows their technologies have been rapidly improving over the years. "Have you been here before?" 

"No. I don't go to the nice parts of Chicago. I worked in the bad areas, where there are a lot of sketchy people." He waves at the bartender, handing him a twenty. "Hi, yes. I would like a root beer." 

The bartender passes the paladin change and places a glass of foaming root beer in front of the paladin. Then he moves to attend to another patron. 

Yuuri is about to ask whether or not Emil, as a paladin, can be possessed by a demon when a man climbs up the stage with a microphone and fedora. The music suddenly ends, the speaker boxes cutting off. He notices a man climbing into the DJ booth wearing a leather jacket and aviator sunglasses despite the dim lighting. Must be a fashion statement. 

"Hello, ladies and gentlemen!" He smiles at the cheers from the large crowd. He waves at the people calling out his name. "Yes, it's great to see you all." A pause. "Tonight, we are going nonstop. Can I get some nonstops?" 

"Nonstop!" The crowd shouts. 

"One more time." He cups his ears, as if unable to hear the ear-splitting screams from the crowd. "Come on! One more time!" 

"Nonstop!" 

“One more time!”

“Nonstop!” 

"Good, good, good. Tonight, we will be listening to the amazing remixes of one DJ Beka!" He draws out the last syllable, gesturing wildly to the DJ setting up his gear without acknowledging the crowd. 

Not a single person seems to mind. The crowd screams anyway. 

"And partnering up with DJ Beka is the most amazing breakdancer you have ever seen. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to Agape!" The man doesn't point out the dancer. Instead, he casually adjusts his blue fedora and slips down from the stage, as if he has done this before. 

Yuuri's eyes quickly adjust to the chaotic lights. He notices a black figure standing in the very center of the stage, his back to the crowd. DJ Beka, sitting down in his booth tucked away in the corner of the dance floor, puts on headphones, not even bothering with his sunglasses. But Yuuri’s eyes are drawn back to the lithe figure up on the stage. 

The figure suddenly does a cartwheel, perfectly landing before where the stage ends. As if on cue, the music starts. The lights manage to capture the black hoodie he wears, and as soon as the hood slips off, Yuuri knows. 

They all know. 

Phichit is the first one to say anything. "Subject in sight." 

It's the antichrist. Nikolai Plisetsky's grandson, dancing like he doesn't know that there is a dark force out there wanting to possess him. He demonstrates some dance moves, every technique deliberate. Does it look like he's enjoying himself? Yuuri can't help but think of Lilia's words. All fine technique, but when it counts, he can't bare his soul to the world. He can't express himself. Not yet, anyway. 

Yuri strips off his hoodie, the fabric flying off to the side. For a moment, the witch panics and hopes it's not  _ that  _ kind of show. But no. The antichrist is merely showing off his outfit, of his torn black jeans, of his worn shoes, of his powerful black eyeliner, of his ragged tank top. His hands are covered with fingerless gloves, also black. His blonde hair, somewhat long, falls behind his head in a tail. 

"This music is amazing," Emil comments. 

Phichit cuts in, automatically agreeing. "I've been to so many clubs, but very few actually know which songs to mix together and which ones shouldn't be." 

The paladin frowns. He asks, "So what song is playing right now?" 

Yuuri snaps his head towards the other man. What song is playing right now? What kind of question is that? Yuuri, who has not possessed a party life like Phichit, knows this song. This song has been all over the scene in the 2000s. "It's 'Mr. Saxobeat' by Alexandra Stan," he answers. "But it's a remix of it, because the DJ blended it with other songs." 

"I'm not that familiar with music," Emil admits, ducking his head as he sips his root beer. "I just recently found electronic pop, and it's amazing!" 

Yuuri can't say anything about that. Only recently? Electronic pop has been around for years, maybe even decades. What kind of sheltered life Emil lived to have not heard of any electronic pop? He doesn't get a chance to question the other man. 

"What song did he change it to now?" 

Yuuri tries not to stare at Emil in shock. The witch is genuinely surprised that he has never heard of this song. It's been so obnoxious to listen to back when Phichit still dragged Yuuri out every once in a while to party. "DJ Alice. The song is called 'Better Off Alone.' The DJ is incredibly talented to have blended these songs together." 

"Oh," Emil says, nodding along to the witch's words. "Is there a theme to blending songs?" 

"The guy is doing a remix of the best dance songs of the last decades," Phichit chimes in. "I'm surprised he hasn't gotten to the magic of the eighties yet." 

"Cut it out," Mickey radios in. "If it's not about the subject moving or if someone has been injured, then do not use the communication line for random information." 

"Yes, Yakov," Phichit savagely replies.

"I am not Yakov." 

The other witch doesn't respond to that, thankfully. Yuuri will hate it if a squabble between Mickey and Phichit ignites while a surveillance operation is running. He does not want to deal with the resulting paperwork. 

"What's this song?" Emil asks a few more times. 

Yuuri answers. Britney Spears, Shakira, and the Backstreet Boys. 

"What about this one?" 

The witch can't help but stare at him, tearing his gaze briefly from the antichrist. How does he not know who Beyonce is? Yuuri, despite not attending that many parties, knows who these singers are. Did Emil grow up in some backwater place with no internet? 

The paladin nods in appreciation when Yuuri finally tells him the name and singer. 

Yuuri is ordering another club soda while keeping an eye on the antichrist. He almost envies his high energy and a seemingly lack of anxiety of dancing in front of large crowds. Yuri shifts from one song to another, shuffling through as flawlessly as DJ Beka has blended the rhythm and vocals of several different dance songs. They're a great pair. DJ Beka has the music no one wants to stop dancing to while Agape inspires people to dance. 

One and a half hour pass by far too quickly. Yuuri is surprised to find that Agape has not taken a single break through each hour. He sits up, eyes narrowing when he sees Agape disappearing into the darkness of the stage.

But no, he's not walking off. 

He's using the distance to slide across the stage, his body stretched behind him as his black shirt bunches up around his upper torso. Physics stops him right by the DJ booth, legs dangling over the edge. Using hard-earned abdominal muscles, he sits up and holds out a gloved hand towards the DJ. 

DJ Beka turns his head, looking remarkably casual as his mouth parts, revealing a neat line of ivory white teeth. He bites the loose end of Yuri's glove, tearing it off the teenager's hand with his teeth. 

They must do this often, because no one seems that surprised even as the crowd hoot and cheer. They cheer even louder when the glove drops from DJ Beka's mouth and they engage in an open, searing kiss that simply begs for more. Even with DJ Beka in his booth that is located against the stage, Yuri has to lean forward, practically using the other man for balance. But. This, this is the moment where Yuri doesn't look all. . .  _ Fine technique, no soul.  _ That is what Lilia said. 

But. 

Here, Yuuri can see his soul. 

Then the antichrist pulls back. Yuri resumes dancing, missing one glove. 

It's another thirty minutes before Yuri finally bows to the crowd, taking his exit on stage left. DJ Beka, however, still works at his station, sunglasses still on despite the dimming lights. 

Emil steps away. "I have eyes on the subject." He leaves Yuuri alone at the bar. 

"Same," Phichit informs. "I'm outside now." 

Mila cuts in. “I’m starting the car.” 

Pretending to sneeze, Yuuri says, “I’m questioning the bartender.” Spinning around in his stool, Yuuri waves at the bartender. "What do you have that is non-alcoholic?" 

He rattles out a few drinks. 

"Okay, get me apple juice. With ice." The witch casually shoves some dollars into the tip jar and inquires, "So this is my first time here. Does DJ Beka keep playing even after Agape leaves?" 

"Yes. He does another three hours," the bartender answers, wiping down the counter. "He's talented." 

"Yes," Yuuri agrees. He takes a slow sip from his apple juice, eyes flicking across the dance floor and the mess of people grinding against one another. Then he finds the stage now being occupied by dancers, random patrons taking advantage of the unoccupied space. 

"Subject is walking down Roosevelt. Guang Hong? I'm going to turn on this street," Emil says. He may not know the music of the 2000s and 2010s, but he does know how a surveillance operation works. 

"I got it. He's in sight." 

"Emil, picking you up right around the corner," Mickey says. 

Then there's a burst of static in Yuuri's ear. The surveillance van is now out of the comm's range. Yuuri discreetly yanks it out and shoves it into his fanny pack, so he doesn’t go deaf from listening to white noise. 

He's about to leave the nightclub when his eyes are inadvertently drawn back to the DJ booth. The antichrist's boyfriend? The antichrist's friend? His partner? 

For the first time all night, DJ Beka yanks off his headphones and pulls off his aviator sunglasses. They're placed on top of his head, his dark eyes focused on the laptop in front of him. 

But that's not all. 

Palms sweating, Yuuri frantically takes a sip from his glass. He knows that face. He knows who that is. He has seen him before in Morooka's vision, back when the witch was tapping into Yuuri's forgotten memories. He can draw comparisons to the past version of this man to the one currently standing across the dance floor. He's modernized. Clean shaven, his jet black hair in a stylish undercut. Leather jacket, the sort of person Yuuri wouldn't want to meet in the dead of the night. And if he did, he would walk to the other side of the road if he could. 

The witch must have been staring at him for too long, because DJ Beka glances away from the laptop, eyes flickering and directly meeting Yuuri's gaze. 

And there, Selaphiel looks back. 

By chance, a group of college girls wearing University of Chicago hoodies forces Yuuri to lose vision of the archangel. When they clear, the DJ booth is empty. 

Yuuri only has a second to comprehend this. Heart pounding, he quickly jumps off from the bar stool. He has to leave. Now. He needs to warn everyone. He needs to warn the team, and he quietly curses the comm’s short range. His mind is barely able to understand a thing, this constant flow of new information. Selaphiel and the antichrist? What is going on? He needs to retreat to rethink about all— 

A hand at his shoulder sends him jumping into the air. 

"I'm sorry. I'm not interested in dancing," Yuuri stammers out, fingers reaching to tear the unwanted touch. 

"I'm not asking you to dance," says a familiar voice. 

The witch slowly turns his head. 

Selaphiel casually sits on a bar stool, the very same one Emil once occupied. With a tilt of his head, he gestures to Yuuri's abandoned glass cup of apple juice. "You haven't finished your drink." 

The witch does not sit. He doesn't even know what to say. 

Selaphiel tilts his head, examining Yuuri as one examines an ant hill. "You remember me," he declares, eyes narrowing. "Or at least, some of the memories. Or maybe remember the psychic backlash from the 11th century." He stands up from the stool, hand releasing Yuuri at last. "Come," he says, not a simple request. "Let's talk in a quieter place."

* * *

The quieter place ends up being the VIP balcony overlooking the dance floor. It really does have the best view in the house, but Yuuri can't admire any of it. Selaphiel ignores the reserved sign, sitting down in the quietest booth. The music is not as loud here, and the lighting is somewhat decent, not a splatter of random flashing colors like the dance floor’s. 

Yuuri sets down his apple juice on the table, leaving it untouched. The witch tries for small talk, his mouth thankfully capable of moving. "Won't you need to keep an eye on the music?" 

"Everything has been premixed." A pause as Selaphiel analyzes him. "You're here for him." 

"Huh?" 

"Knowing who you are, you would have eventually joined the hunters or law enforcement," Selaphiel concludes. "Due to the ongoing crisis and the Apocalypse lurking overhead, the hunters are beginning to notice. I assume that you would be one of them." 

Yuuri sits quietly, unable to come up with something clever to say. But then he thinks of the dream, the one time Selaphiel spoke to him and directly to him. Finding his voice, he says, "You visited me. When I was dead and lingering around Matsuura. In Japan." 

"I did," Selaphiel confirms. "That was almost sixty years ago. Had to sneak pass Azrael's hellhound and the angel himself." 

"I only heard it a few weeks ago. Only remembered." 

"To be honest, I hope you did," the archangel sighs. "Hope is like a seed. You must plant it. Or else it will never happen." 

Yuuri relaxes slightly. He doesn't feel like he will be incinerated or destroyed by Selaphiel. No, the archangel seems rather approachable. Not cold and detached like that terrible night all the way back in the 11th century. "The antichrist," he says. 

"Yes." There is not another word. 

"Nikolai Plisetsky." 

There is not a change in his expression. "Yes." 

"You hid them both, didn't you?" Yuuri furrows his eyebrows, trying to understand the other man's angle. His motive. He has met two angels before. Raphael, the archangel. And Victor. Neither seem to be interested in taking shots against the oncoming Apocalypse, yet hiding the antichrist and his grandfather seems to be actively stalling the End of the World. Or at least, that's what it seems to Yuuri. 

"I did. Not very well evidently." Selaphiel purses his lips. 

"We're not here to help Lucifer," Yuuri tells him. "We're trying to stop the Apocalypse." A pause. "Can you help us?" 

Selaphiel admits, "I'm already doing what I can to keep him out of his reach. But I'm only slowing what is inevitable, what is destined. Once Lucifer releases the Princes of Hell and the other three Horsemen, he's going to turn his full attention to Yuri. No matter how many wards or sigils I block him with, he's going to figure it out." 

"Even if you take him to Heaven?" 

The archangel shakes his head. "Michael, if he notices, will march Yuri over to Lucifer himself. Earth is the safest place he can be." A pause. "There is one other place, but I can't protect him there. It's not an option." 

Yuuri narrows his eyes. "What place?" 

"Purgatory. But like I said. I can't protect him there. Neither can you, so don't think about it. You’ll be eaten by Purgatory’s residents in no time." Selaphiel shrugs. "So we're stuck. We are pushing against the clock, and it's not going to yield." 

"But someone has to fight Lucifer. It's supposed to be Michael. What if you did but in a way that it doesn’t destroy an entire world?" 

"It's not that simple." 

"Then tell me." 

This, Selaphiel pauses at. 

"Selaphiel, I'm already on your side." The witch leans in, sensing no intention from the archangel to allow the Apocalypse happen. "Even though you've killed me a long time ago. I forgive that." 

"Your mate doesn't forgive that." Selaphiel grabs the collar of his own shirt and tugs, revealing a hideous scar, the flesh black. As if he's been burned a long time ago. "He left that. As a permanent reminder." 

"A physical reminder of the curse,” Yuuri breathes, astounded. He has never imagined Victor would have left an actual mark on Selaphiel. 

Silence. 

"Otabek." 

"What?" 

He repeats himself. "Otabek. It's the name I've been using for the last twenty years. I prefer you use that instead of Selaphiel. No one else except for Heaven and Hell know me by Selaphiel." 

"Otabek," Yuuri tries. Then he remembers Mickey's briefing, the person who always wires seven hundred dollars to Nikolai Plisetsky’s bank account. Their renter. "As in Otabek Altin?" 

The archangel drums his fingers on the table. He sighs. "I suppose I didn't cover all of my tracks. You seem to know a lot about me. Maybe almost everything." 

"We found you because of Nikolai," Yuuri admits, resisting the urge to finish off his apple juice. He clasps his hands together instead, leaving his hands on the table. Visible. "Then once we figured his alias, we found everyone else he was in contact with. That’s how we found you and the others." 

Selaphiel. . . Otabek absorbs this. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. If you can find him, then my brother, who shares a psychic link with Yuri, will most definitely be able to find him.” 

Yuuri doesn’t know what to say. He sees Otabek’s defeat and his ironic lack of hope, and he asks, “But it’s not over yet. He still hasn’t possessed him. It’s not the end yet.” 

“Lucifer is free. Every angel knows this,” Otabek tells him. "It's only a matter of time. We know how it plays out. To the mortals and humans, it looks like the end comes out of nowhere. Disease strikes first. That's when humans will be dying by thousands. Yes, this has been foretold. War comes next. If you have been paying attention to the news, you would have noticed countries growing ever so more hostile to one another. Imagine the influence of a Horseman. Nuclear bombs eliminating the most populated cities. New York City, Beijing, Berlin, London. You name it. For those who remain, they will face Famine. And while these three Horsemen reign over the world, your beloved reaps souls by the millions." 

"So they will not fight before most of humanity is wiped out?" Yuuri inquires. He thinks of the Cold War, of the chilling fact that the governments with nuclear options have more than enough firepower to bomb the world fifty times over. He can't imagine anyone surviving that. 

No. 

No one will survive it. 

"Yes, because Lucifer must gain power. He alone can't take on Heaven," Otabek explains patiently. "If he did, he would be instantly slewed by Gabriel and Michael. Cassiel would help. Raphael probably would." 

"And you?" 

The archangel shrugs. "Assuming if I don't die protecting Yuri, then yes, I think." But he doesn't look convinced. 

Why? Does he think he can't defeat Lucifer with Michael and all the other archangels? Or does he believe he will die defending Yuri from Lucifer? 

But Yuuri could ask no further about what he means. Instead, he's cut off by Otabek’s next words. 

The archangel stares off at the distance. "My absence is getting noted. I have to go back to work, but I can talk to you more tomorrow. I assume you know where Lilia's ballet studio is? The one on 6th Avenue?" 

The witch doesn't know, but he is certain he can find it. "Yes, what about it?" 

"I'm setting up the sound system for Lilia Baranovskaya and her rehearsal at eight in the morning. Long story short, I will have some time to talk to you then. I'm going to be busy for the rest of the night." 

"Why?" Yuuri questions. "You only have a few hours more on your shift." 

"I have to maintain the wards around Chicago. And this entire state." Then he's gone, leaving Yuuri alone in the VIP box. 

The witch glances downwards, surprised to see Otabek working the DJ booth with his sunglasses and expensive headphones on again as if he has never left his spot.

* * *

After leaving a few texts in group chat and punching in his time sheet online, Yuuri has elected to book a hotel room at two o'clock in the morning. He barely has any thoughts for anything, and it's only the thought of a nice bed that keeps him moving. He can barely complete the arduous task of stripping off his clothes, and he doesn't even know where his toothbrush is located in his fanny pack. 

Of course, when he climbs into the bed, he finds himself looking at the dark window, unable to find sleep in the beautiful view of Lake Michigan. 

So he grabs his phone and begins to scroll, thinking that he should brush his teeth at the very least if he can't seem to sleep. There's no new updates from group chat, and Yuuri finds himself opening the text messages from Victor. 

It's so strange. After weeks of being with Victor day and night, he finds the bed quite vacant. Empty. Too big, even though Yuuri's old bed in Madrid is the exact same size. He fires off a simple text.

_ Are you still awake?  _

Victor apparently is, because that text message quickly turns to read. Then he's typing back a response.  _ Yes.  _

_ Do you want to come over? I'm not staying in a fancy hotel room, but it has a bed and a shower.  _

A text message sends Victor's reply.  _ Low standards we will need to work on. But I'll come. Room and hotel?  _

Yuuri sends it over. He shouldn't be so surprised to see a dark figure blocking his window. The witch slowly sits up, smiling. "Victor." 

The figure comes closer, kneeling down. With a sigh, the alpha says, "Yuuri." Then he stiffens, sniffing. 

"Victor?" The witch sits up, hitting the light switch as he inhales the scent emitting from his alpha, the scent of confusion and then the startling pang of raw  _ fear.  _ "Victor, what's wrong?" 

The alpha captures Yuuri's hand and breathes, his nose following along the witch's arm until he finds the shoulder. "You. . . Yuuri, he touched you."

Realization quickly strikes. "Victor, it's alright." 

The other man pulls back, shaking his head. "No, it's not alright. You might not remember, but he killed you less than a thousand years ago. He slaughtered you. He. . ." 

"He did not hurt me. Not today." 

"But he might." Victor darkens, pressing the scent gland on his wrist against Yuuri's shoulder. Overrunning the scent. "Yuuri, the curse on him is still active. What if he decides to take it out on you one more time? In revenge for what I did." 

"Victor, he's not a fallen angel. He’s not evil." 

"It's within his power and his right to strike you down again. He won't come directly at me. He can't. But you? He only needs to reveal his true form to you and I lose you again," the alpha says in a rush. "Please, stay away from him. Do not go near him again. I can't be with you at all times, guarding you from him." 

"Victor. . ." Yuuri doesn't know what to say. Instead, he pulls him onto the bed, holding Victor tight as if he may run. He doesn’t admit he plans to see Otabek tomorrow. "I will be fine." 

"Yuuri." A pause. "I don't know." He lays down, supine as he stares up at the ceiling. Frozen in shock. 

The witch throws a leg over the alpha, his arms gathering around Victor. "Please. It will be fine. Besides, the Apocalypse will kill everyone in this world. What makes me running into Selaphiel any different?" Yuuri asks. 

"I. . ." The alpha softly admits, "Rapture. I was hoping I can fly you up to Heaven before it happens. The moment before you. . ." He fills in awkwardly, "Before this world ends." 

Oh. 

Yuuri stares at him, quiet as his mind races. He has never considered this line of questioning before. "Victor. . ." He pauses, trying to summon up the correct combination of words to form the sentence that will accurately express his very thought. "Victor. . . You might not trust Selaphiel. You might not know who he is now. I spoke with him earlier today, and I believe what he says is honest, is true. You might not believe in him." 

"I don't." 

"Okay," Yuuri replies, accepting this. He tucks his head onto the alpha's shoulder, his next words a whisper. "If you don't trust him or believe in him. . . Then put your faith and trust in me. Can you do that? Just trust me." 

Silence. 

He is left waiting for an answer for a long time, long enough for his eyelids to begin drooping despite the lights glowing above their heads. His dreamscape rises up, another world unfolding in the witch's mind. 

What does his dream magic tell him now? What secrets can it reveal? What deceit can it pull back, leaving behind the truth? 

"Saki!" Yuuri calls out, chasing a small girl running ahead in a school uniform. Is this a memory? Is this something that has happened before? But no, he's wielding a smartphone in his left hand. It can't be from the past. 

Maybe it is someone else's memory? 

"Saki, wait!" His eyes adjust to the bright sunlight, the surroundings gaining clarity. From the traffic signs and the car plates, they're in Japan. 

The girl, so tiny that she couldn't be older than ten, keeps sprinting ahead. Does she hear him screaming after her? Or is she running away from him? And how can she be so fast? 

"Saki, slow down!" 

The girl laughs, her giggles echoing in the dream. Her hands grip around the bands of her backpack, her legs leaping great distances as she zooms farther and farther away from the witch. She quickly turns right, jogging on a small bridge overlooking the ocean. 

"Saki, slow down! Saki!" 

Yuuri can taste the saltwater in the air. He's desperately panting as he slows, barely dodging a biker who yells at him in surprise. The witch can barely afford an apology. 

But the girl. She stands in the center of the bridge, her back to Yuuri. Her black hair has been braided neatly into a single strand. She faces a man, an alpha standing before her. She's clapping in delight, laughing at whatever the man said. 

Legs frozen to the pavement, Yuuri can't help but stare. He can't help but look, eyes unable to tear themselves away from this scene. 

The alpha, dressed in a casual grey tracksuit, runs a hand through his stylized silver hair. His eyes sparkle in pure happiness, his shoulders clenching in laughter. Then he notices Yuuri standing and gawking from the distance. "Yuuri!" Victor shouts, waving from the bridge. 

The girl turns, finally noticing the witch's presence. "Touchan!" She waves, a smile lighting up her face. "I was telling Chichi that I got the role! For Lilia's ballet show!" 

Yuuri finally moves his legs, approaching as he walks over far too slowly. 

Victor laughs. "So which ballet show is she doing now?" 

The girl pouts. "She didn't let me audition for  _ The Firebird. _ She said I was too young to play any of the parts. I wanted to be the princess. The prettiest princess Prince Ivan marries." 

"But not the firebird?" 

"The firebird doesn't marry a prince. The firebird gets caught by Prince Ivan while eating apples," Saki complains. 

"It's a big role. The titular character. The lead," the alpha tells her. 

The girl shrugs. "Meh." 

"So which play?" 

_ "The Nutcracker! _ I got the Sugar Plum Fairy!" She grabs Yuuri's hand in her left and Victor's in her right. Skipping as they all walk together, she cheerfully asks, "So when we go home, can we watch  _ Barbie of Swan Lake?  _ Please!" She draws out the last syllable, head swiveling for support. 

The alpha hums. "You will have to ask your brother, Saki. He wanted to watch  _ Wonder Woman  _ and the sequel." 

"But we watched that last week! And all of the superhero movies!" 

Yuuri finds his voice at last. Steadily, he reminds her, "We also watched Barbie movies yesterday. Don't you think it's your brother's turn to pick the movie?" 

She frowns. Then perks up. "But we can watch Barbie next week, right?" 

"Yes, Saki." 

Then the scene shifts. 

Where is he? Yuuri's eyes focus, trying to see through the mess of grey blobs and strange glowing red lights. Then his eyes find clarity, the grey blob becoming a large computer screen and the red lights to be spots on a large map of the globe on the wall. 

Yuuri himself is wearing a standard combat uniform worn by the US military. He doesn't know enough about them to recognize the exact insignia. Is he tapping into someone's memory? He glances downwards, noticing his left hand casually tapping on the conference room table. 

No one else sits with him. He's alone. For the time being. 

In his other hand, he clutches the hilt of a sword resting on the table, the blade glowing a molten red. The blade spans a foot and a half, intricately carved with symbols and markings he does not know. The very appearance of the blade deeply unsettles the witch, especially its gleaming sharp tip. Yuuri knows this sword only has one true purpose. 

To kill. 

The door springs open. 

"General, I have seen no indications of a missile coming from Russia," the woman says, her back rigid. Her very scent is contained, her very emotions wrapped up carefully and professionally. "I don't know what reports you've been seeing, but the situation in the Gulf is contained." She doesn't seem to see the sword on the table. Or perhaps she doesn't think it's unusual for a sword to be on the table. 

The man, the General, the person Yuuri is dreaming through, merely tilts his head back. "Lieutenant Amanda Prescott, isn't it?" 

"Yes, sir," she confirms. 

He exhales. "Are you, Lieutenant Prescott, paid to think about the big picture?" 

She pauses at that question. "Sir?" 

"Answer it." 

"No, sir." 

The general nod slowly, the grip around his sword tightening. For a brief moment, Yuuri worries for the Lieutenant. There's a flash, a deep urge to kill the woman where she stands in his stomach, but then it recedes. The general gruffly tells her, "Leave the big picture to me, Lieutenant Prescott. You are dismissed." 

"Yes, sir." 

Then time speeds up, as if someone has hit the fast-forward button. The general speeds through the day, working quietly in that conference room until the clock hits five o'clock. The sword is brought home as well, sitting in the passenger seat as he drives. Then he's suddenly sitting down in an armchair of a living room, time slowing down as if someone has hit the play button on a DVR. 

Seconds tick by normally. 

The general slowly sips from a glass of whiskey. On his coffee table is the sword, and the only source of light is the fireplace. The grandfather clock claims the time to be three fifty-eight in the morning. 

Then something happens. 

A bright light of pure whiteness, powerful enough to blind, emerges out of nowhere in the room. There are whispers, a constant rhythm of noise like snake rattles, slithering quietly in the shadows. It's the same white light Yuuri has seen only a few weeks ago in a grand church in Florence, Italy. The one emerging from a sigil, rising out of Hell and seizing freedom with both hands. 

The general seems unimpressed. He continues to casually drink from his cup, as if archangels visited him all the time. 

The white light continues its whisperings. It must have been fed up by the lack of response from the general, because the whispers increase in volume. Loud enough that Yuuri can truly hear the devil. 

_ Are you even listening to me?  _

"I heard you the first time." 

_ I expect a response.  _ The devil's voice is grating, annoyed. No, he expects the general to be in awe of him. But no, the general could hardly care. 

"Oh, you do?" The general polishes his glass. "Well," he drawls. "Here is my response. I can have the humans kill each other, one hundred percent, in the matter of an hour. A small switch is enough for seven billion humans to die. That's the reality of war now." 

_ Then kill them slowly. I need time to prepare myself for battle against Michael.  _

The general merely pours himself some more whiskey into the glass. "Slower you say?" He sips again. "Then how many humans do you want surviving?" 

_ You say there are seven billion of these little filthy creatures? Then I want you to save a half billion for me to practice on.  _

"Fine. I'll have to figure something out with Pestilence and Famine," the general replies. "Now, can you get out of my parlor?" 

_ Your disrespect to me has been noted, Horseman.  _

"Cry me a river," the general spits. "After your war is done, there will be no more wars. What do I care about after I've faded?" 

_ Faded is what you wish you have done after I'm through with you.  _

The general sips, waving his hand. "Don't you have a little lost boy to find, Lucifer? You're running out of time." 

Then the scene is rapidly melting away, the last words of Lucifer inaudible. Yuuri rolls over on the bed, finding the space next to him cold and empty. He's somewhat bothered by Victor's absence, but he shoves it all down, summoning his journal to scratch out his dreams before he forgets. 

The girl. Saki, a pretty Japanese name. She has a brother, which means. . . In the dream, Yuuri has at least two children. It seems so unreachable and unrealistic with the Apocalypse hanging overhead like the dull blade of a guillotine, poised to painfully behead them all. Is it a dream of things that might have been? 

Or is it something even darker? A dream seeing into the future, into when the world has died and they are all in Heaven? 

Yuuri doesn't like that thought. 

He's quickly scribbling down the second part of his dream about the general in the American military when Victor suddenly appears in front of him. The man is dressed in hospital scrubs, dark bags under his eyes. 

The witch thought angels didn't need sleep. His alpha appears as if he needs at least twelve hours in bed. 

“Yuuri,” he says, the witch’s name a sigh. 

“So can you?” Yuuri wonders, remembering the last question he asked him. “Can you put your faith in me? Just believe in me, Victor.” 

“It’s not you I don’t believe in. Angels experience time differently. What is centuries to you is merely a blink of an eye for most of us. Like yesterday.” The other man rubs his eyes. 

The witch puts aside his journal, reaching for Victor’s hands. “Please. Just believe in me.” He’s begging, every word soft, trying to touch the other man, attempting to make him even understand. No, he does not have to trust Otabek, trust Selaphiel, trust that the Archangel of Hope has something bigger to believe in than Michael’s order regarding Nephilms and such. He only needs to believe, to trust, Yuuri. 

But his silence is telling. 


	4. Leviathan I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~I'll Make It Up To You by Imagine Dragons~~
> 
> ~~Roses by The Chainsmokers, ROZES~~
> 
> 1916 by The Shortlist

Sipping a cup of tea with strawberry jam stirred in with a spoon, the alpha sits across from Yuuri in the hotel's restaurant. The hotel thankfully serves a complimentary all-you-can-eat breakfast, but the witch is not choosing to take advantage of the meal. 

"When is your shift?" Yuuri inquires. 

Though the witch is tempted to put some space in between them, Yuuri forces himself to ask, to keep trying to connect. There is no chance Victor will help him with the Apocalypse if he stays away from the alpha. To change his mind on an issue this big, Yuuri needs time, persuasion, and luck. Unfortunately, he lacks two and arguably, he is not that persuasive. 

"I got ten minutes left on my break," the alpha answers, not even looking at a watch. 

Silence. 

Yuuri rolls the sausage over scrambled eggs, his eyes flicking back down to his plate. He's not that hungry. 

"It's not you I don't trust. It's Selaphiel," Victor suddenly says, breaking the silence. With a finger, he nudges the teacup perfectly so on the saucer. "I'm having a difficult time believing that he won't come after you or hurt you again." 

"I don't think he will. I don't believe he will do that." 

Victor frowns. "I know what you believe." He sighs, hands running through his hair. "Okay. I know that you will probably run into him again." 

The witch freezes. Does Victor somehow know that Yuuri is planning to meet up with him in less than an hour? 

He continues, "I know it might happen. It will happen. I don't like it, but I'm not going to stop you from seeing him. It's your business, and I'm not going to nose my way in." 

Yuuri senses there's something more left unsaid. He prompts, "But?" 

"If you need any help, any help in anything, pray to me," Victor says, his voice low. "I'll hear it." A pause as he pulls out his phone from the pocket of his hoodie. "I need to go. E.R. is having an influx of patients due to a work accident." 

"Okay, see you." Yuuri feels the hot press of lips against his cheeks and sighs. It's not the help he's looking for, but it is better than nothing at all. His eyes flicker to the television on the wall, his fork stabbing the sausage. 

The words, _Breaking News,_ rolls across the screen. Can it be deemed as _Breaking News_ when all news these days seem to be _Breaking?_ Especially in these times. A reporter in a fitted pantsuit appears. 

She announces, "Tensions increase in the Middle East as the relationship between the United States and Iran further deteriorate. U.S. diplomats are reportedly being pulled out by the State Department by a twenty-four hour notice. . ." Her voice trails off.

* * *

Yuuri arrives promptly at Lilia’s studio on 6th Avenue at eight in the morning. A part of him likes this studio better, can imagine himself at home here. It’s tucked away behind a designer clothing store and a SAT tutoring center, and there aren’t that many windows as the one on Roosevelt. He’s pleased to see that Otabek has been honest. The archangel has some wires held between his teeth as he works on the speaker boxes with a wrinkle between his eyes. But before Yuuri can even approach him, he’s intercepted by a tall former prima ballerina in heels. 

Lilia raises an eyebrow. “So you’ve found my other studio.” 

“It was on Google,” Yuuri acknowledges with a nod of his head. Then he politely says, “Good morning, Miss Baranovskaya."

She nods in return, her head inclining slightly. “Who are you here for today? Yura is not expected to come in for instruction until eleven.” 

“Otabek,” the witch answers, gesturing to the archangel kneeling in the corner. “But he looks incredibly busy.” 

“Yes, my speakers broke yesterday.” Lilia beckons him towards a group of ballet students practicing their poses and stretching. “Perhaps I can entertain you in the meanwhile. I’m currently holding auditions for _The Firebird,_ and it’s not going as well as I wish. Some of my students here are currently working on their roles for _Swan Lake._ I’ve rented out an auditorium at a local high school for _Swan Lake.”_

Yuuri nods, absorbing her words. But then his attention is briefly drawn to the two teenagers ignoring their practice and gossiping about something. 

"It's not just something, Ariana," one girl hisses. She's Asian, appearing to be in her late teens. "Look, I have family back in China. It's something happening. It's not a simple flu. It's so much more contagious than the seasonal flu." 

"You're overreacting. I mean, it's not that bad. A flu is a flu. We get them all the time, you know. Like. I got it last summer." 

"Ariana, Cameron," Lilia loudly interrupts, turning her death glare to the two girls. "Have you forgotten what you're supposed to do?" 

"Sorry, Miss Baranovskaya." 

The two girls resume their stretching, using a horizontal wooden bar nailed to the mirrors for additional balance. 

The former ballerina shakes her head in disapproval. "They should talk outside of the studio, not inside. Wasting time talking about things that do not matter." She claps her hands, drawing all the attention. In a louder voice, she says, "I will be starting auditions for _The Firebird_ in thirty minutes. Until then, I want those who have earned a role in _Swan Lake_ to demonstrate the routines they've been struggling on. Starting with the prince, please." 

Yuuri follows the ballerina to a private corner in the studio, a teenaged boy following them both. He quietly asks, "Is everyone in your production so young?" 

"Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. The oldest is eighteen," the ballerina answers. Then she notices a blond boy sneaking in from the back. "Yura, don't slouch!" 

The antichrist stiffens, instantly straightening. He growls, but he says nothing to Lilia. 

"I'm going to need you later to help with Cameron. After I'm done with Derek," the ballerina informs. "Get ready."

He scowls but nods, sneaking looks over to Otabek. Tearing off his sneakers, he pulls off his leopard-print hoodie and disappears into the crowd of ballet students. 

"That one. Talented but few expressions. Poor expressions," Lilia says, well within the earshot of Derek. "I expect you to keep your rhythm and pacing without the music. Now, from the starting position!" 

Yuuri casually watches as Lilia drills the ballet student to the point of near-tears. She's relentless, expecting nothing less than perfection. The ballet student misses a stance? He's made to repeat it. He misses a leap? Repeat, practice. He's out of touch with the time? 

"Do it again but better!" Lilia thunders. But even as she forces him to strive closer to the ideal forms, his toes twisting and his shoes getting worn with each second, he's pushing onward, passion igniting as his face is caught up in the very scene. 

"He's imaginative," Yuuri says, once the ballerina is through with him. 

"Yes, almost hopeless with that memory, but he does believe in the role. I see the prince when he dances," Lilia says. It's perhaps the closest to a compliment he's heard all session from the ballerina. She dismisses Derek and calls out for Cameron, the girl playing Odette and Odile. Yuri the antichrist is called forth as well. 

They stand behind Lilia. 

In a whisper, the ballerina informs, "Yura knows the routine perfectly, because he learned this role when he was young." 

"But he didn't get the role?" 

"He didn't try out for it. If he did, I would have given it to him. He's a natural at Odette," Lilia says. In a louder voice, she barks, "Yura, why are you standing like that? You have a spine, use it!" A pause. "Now, remember this scene. Feel it! What is Odette doing right now?" 

"She's frightened," the ballet student answers. "She saw Prince Siegfried aiming a bow at her." 

The witch watches as they dance through the routine in unison. Though the grouchy expression on the antichrist's face never changes, he does keep to the routine perfectly so. What was it that Lilia said?

His technique is perfect. But there's no soul. 

After Lilia instructs several ballet students to dance like swans around a lake, she turns to the witch once again. Lowering her voice, she inquires, "Have you ever watched _Swan Lake_ or heard of it before?" 

"I have," Yuuri replies, smiling. "My sister made me watch the animation." 

The ballerina clucks her tongue in disapproval. "I was hoping you actually have seen the production. But you understand the story, right?" 

"I do." He remembers the plot of the movie. "A princess was cursed by an evil sorcerer to be a swan by day and a woman by night. She ends up falling in love with a prince, but the sorcerer's daughter was spelled to look like Odette and tricked the prince into breaking his vow of marriage to Odette. He wanted to marry Odile, not realizing she was not Odette. He rushes back to the lake and finds Odette in time to defeat the sorcerer." 

The ballerina nods. "I'm glad you know one version of the story at the very least. It's such a shame you probably won't be able to attend the production next friday." Then she walks to the very center of the room, her hands clapping for attention. "Now, auditions for the titular character, the firebird." She pulls a piece of paper from her pocket, unfolding it. "I will start with Janice. From the top, I want to see the dance of the firebird." 

Yuuri doesn't really understand what Lilia is looking for in particular. Every ballet student looks almost the same in dance, the techniques and steps perfect. They all look like birds, flying and soaring in the sky. He's drawn back to the present when Yuri is called to dance the part. 

"That one," Lilia says, sighing as she watches Yuri Plisetsky dance the part of the firebird. "He's not delicate and gentle enough for this role. He doesn't have the correct temperament." 

"What role would he be in?" 

"Not any until he learns to tap into the character's mind and soul. But he is suitable enough for the Beautiful Tsarevna." In a louder voice, she calls out, "Yura, cease." 

The antichrist stops in mid-step. "Yes, Miss Baranovskaya?" 

"You're wooden," the ballerina criticizes. She then gestures to Yuuri. "Yura, this here is Mr. Katsuki. He's thinking about enrolling his children. Why don't you explain to him the story? Educate him on this ballet." 

The witch can practically see steam rising from the ears of the antichrist. But he's surprised to hear him consent. Yuuri follows him off to the side while Lilia continues to run auditions for the cast. 

With a sullen, sour face, Yuri speaks through his teeth. "The story starts off with Prince Ivan hunting in a magical forest ruled by Koschei, an evil sorcerer who keeps his life hidden in a needle. He sees the firebird eating from an apple tree. He captures her, but she begs for him to spare her life. In return, she offers him a feather that can summon her if he ever needs her assistance." 

The witch almost smiles. Koschei. A long time ago, that was what he once thought Victor to be. 

"Prince Ivan finds the princesses and falls in love with the Tsarevna, but he also comes across Koschei. They fight, and Prince Ivan uses the feather to summon the firebird who bewitches Koschei and his monstrous allies. They fall into a deep sleep. The firebird leads Prince Ivan to the needle, and he destroys it, releasing the curse Koschei cast on the princesses." 

Silence. 

"That's it?" 

The antichrist scowls even deeper. He mutters, "I can't believe the old hag made me do this." He taps his ballet shoe against the floorboards. "Yes, that is it. That's the end of the story. Bad enough I have to sit through the tragic version of _Swan Lake_ and I can't believe that. . ." His voice trails off, knuckles clenching around nothing but air. 

"Tragic version?" 

The blonde teenager squints at the witch. "How do you not know that ballet? It's famous." 

"But how does it end?" 

The antichrist straightens, his posture fixing. Glumly, he answers, "Baron Von Rothbart wins, because his daughter successfully tricked Prince Siegfried into believing that she is Odette and proposing marriage to her. Siegfried realizes what he has done too late, and he dies by Rothbart's hand. Odette dies. Rothbart's curse prevails. All the other princesses remain swans forever." 

"You don't like that ending," Yuuri notes. 

"It's depressing," the antichrist responds bitterly. "Siegfried dies, Odette dies. Evil wins. What kind of a ballet show is that?" 

Before the witch can answer him, a voice interrupts, "Yuuri." 

Both of them turn their heads. 

"Not you, Yura. Yuuri Katsuki," Otabek says, slipping on some fingerless gloves. 

The antichrist coughs, eyes widening in outrage. "No. No! His name can't be Yuri, too. He's. . ." 

"Yura, Japan has Yuuri as a name as well," the archangel calmly explains. "Besides, Russia has a lot of Yuris out there. I'll talk to you later at home. I would rather not discuss things here." 

The antichrist wrinkles his nose, but he nods. "Fine, I'll see you at home." He turns, facing the mirror and stretching out his arms. 

Otabek leads Yuuri to the back of the studio, opening a door leading to an exit. He looks around and inquires, "Do you want to talk here or somewhere even more private?" 

The alley is cramped but clean. All the trash has been piled into the dumpster instead of the pavement. It's certainly the best one Yuuri has ever seen, which makes him wonder if Lilia hired people or coerced her students to clean behind the studio regularly. 

"I prefer somewhere private." 

The archangel nods. "Okay, then I'll take you to my home." He reaches out and taps Yuuri on the shoulder, long enough for their entire scenery to shift. 

"This is your room?" The witch glances around, surprised by the clutter of music sheets and instruments and speaker boxes. It's chaotic, and a piano keyboard has been dangerously placed on top of a twin bed. 

"Yes, I rented this room from Nikolai," he explains, confirming what Yuuri already knew. 

"Must help you keep an eye on Yuri," Yuuri muses aloud. "Because you keep incredibly close." 

The archangel shifts away some books of sheet music to reveal a bean bag chair. "I don't have any real chairs at the moment, so the only place for us to sit is here." 

So Yuuri does, taking the purple bean bag while Otabek sits on the red one. He glances around the room, staring at the posters of music artists on the walls. It's comical, if Yuuri doesn't think about the upcoming Apocalypse. He's sitting in a bedroom fit for a teenage musician and talking to perhaps one of the oldest beings alive in the universe. He turns his eyes back to the archangel, feeling the press of the dark eyes boring into him. 

"The Apocalypse," Yuuri prompts. It's odd how they can speak to each other now without the bass of the music blocking out sound. "Are you certain there is no way we can't stop it from happening?" 

"I can't," Otabek answers, clasping his hands together as he sits back. "All I can do is keep the hope burning that humanity can survive this." 

Yuuri's eyebrows furrow. "But what does that mean? Keep hope burning?" 

"Hope. Hope is expectation. Hope is a dream in a way," the archangel says. "We can hope for the Apocalypse to end, but it would take a miracle for it to be stopped. I'm not capable of miracles of that degree, but hope can keep the hunters and those who fight against the Apocalypse going another day." 

"Then who can grant a miracle?" 

"The Creator." 

The witch remembers what Victor told him. "But the Creator is gone. Victor thinks the Creator is dead." 

"Hiding," Otabek corrects. "Hiding. I think the Creator grew tired of Heaven once creation happened. Left Heaven, decided to start a fresh page. I believe it was Raphael who talked to the Creator last." 

"Minako?" 

The archangel tilts his head. "I don't know that name." 

"It's the name Raphael is going by nowadays. Is she supposed to be charged with protecting the Prophet of the Lord?" 

"Yes," the archangel confirms. "From demons, dangerous creatures, even from humans. But if you're trying to stop the Apocalypse with the help of Raphael, it's not going to work. Raphael, Gabriel, and Michael are fiercely tight with one another. They are more likely to hand Yura off to Lucifer once they find out what I've done." 

Yuuri frowns. "You tell me that none of the ideas I'm throwing out can give us a fighting chance against the Apocalypse?" 

A pause. 

Then Otabek slightly nods. "I do think there is one option that can work. Your beloved, Victor. He's Death and a Horseman." 

"Yes?" Yuuri twists his hands. He adds, "But no matter how hard I try to convince him, he does not budge. He does not care about the Apocalypse at all." 

"He wants your spell, the reincarnation spell, to break," Otabek concludes. "It will be incredibly difficult to convince him to turn against the Apocalypse, but out of everyone in the world, you're the only one with enough sway over him." 

"But how?" 

The archangel shrugs. "I don't know. I'm not privy to the details of your intimate relationship. You must figure it out yourself." 

The witch gives a face at the thought of Otabek having close details about their intimate relationship. He shifts gears and inquires, "But what can Victor possibly do to stop the Apocalypse? You say he's a Horseman and he's Death, but I don't see a way out." 

"The Horsemen have a particular duty. To oversee the culling of humanity throughout time. But Victor, as an angel and Death, is the most powerful of the four. The other three lives and dies as humanity does. What is War without humanity? What is Famine without humans starving? What is Pestilence when no humans grow sick? But what is to stop Victor from killing Lucifer, ending the Apocalypse?" 

Gaping at the archangel, Yuuri tries to make sense of his words. "You mean. . ." 

"Victor can very well take someone before their time. His scythe carries two forms. The most typical stance is the farming scythe. But the other form is his war scythe. As Death, the only way he dies, the only weakness he possesses, is the scythe. An archangel sword can stab him, and it won't kill him. Victor can wield my sword and fight Lucifer for as long as he wants without getting killed. Lucifer can't fell him, and eventually, once he weakens enough, Victor can kill him." 

Yuuri stares at him. "But he's an angel." 

Otabek leans closer, elbows on his knees. "Yuuri, he's old. He's older than Uriel, who is an archangel. By the succession of creation, he should theoretically be an archangel. But he is something else as well." 

The witch remembers this, remembers wondering why Victor refers to himself as an angel even though he is older than Uriel. 

"Death existed the moment life did," Otabek says. "He is not like the other angels. He may appear and look like one. He can summon celestial energy and has a true form." 

"What does his true form look like?" Yuuri asks, unable to stop himself. 

"Many eyes. One of his heads looks like a raven," Otabek answers. 

"Eyes?" 

"I don't know the exact number. It's disconcerting to count all of his eyes," Otabek claims, his face stoic. "But I'm getting off-track. The point is this. He's stronger than what he says he is." 

"Stronger?" Yuuri has no point of references. To him, Otabek, Raphael, Lucifer, and Victor are all stronger than anything he has ever known. From what he has learned so far, it seems that Victor can defeat all of them if he doesn't let his scythe be used against him. 

The archangel sits back. "Before creation, what was there?" 

The phrase tickles something in Yuuri's brain. When he skimmed through Genesis, he read something like that, didn't he? Of course, he was far more interesting in the events foretold by Revelations, but he regrets not reading the story more thoroughly. "I don't know." 

"Before creation, there was darkness," Otabek fills in. "Darkness is a primordial force that ties the universe together. The Creator possesses similar energy. And then there's Victor." 

"You're saying he's a primordial force," Yuuri concludes. 

"That's the working theory I have with Cassiel," the archangel says, shrugging. "He is not like the other archangels. He theoretically should be one. But he's something else. From the way Gabriel talked about how he came into creation, you would think the Creator knew too." 

"How does Gabriel talk about him?" 

"It wasn't what was said. More of what was unsaid." A pause. "I wasn't there to see Victor being created. But according to Gabriel, it was quiet. Usually, the Creator would name us, mark us with something to protect like hope or justice or family, but for Victor? There was nothing. And he came into creation with that scythe in his hand, a weapon like no other." 

"But how was he chosen as Death?" 

"He was not chosen. He was Death. Past, present, and future. What is a rock but a rock? Death is death, no other secret to it. He just was." 

"But every other angel was chosen for something?" 

"Yes," Otabek confirms. "Every other except for him. For him, as I have said before, there was only silence." 

"But if I can't convince him, if he is not an option, what else can we do? You have to know something, remember something." Yuuri knows he's begging, but Otabek is the only avenue he has right now. He can't do anything else, not with the way Victor backs off about interfering with the Apocalypse. 

The archangel turns his head, frowning as he stares off at the distance. 

"Otabek?" The witch prompts. "Is everything okay?"

"Lucifer's Princes of Hell have been released," the archangel stoically announces, still frowning at something Yuuri doesn't see. "We don't have much time before the Four Horsemen ride out the Apocalypse and unleash its power." He stands up, shaking his head as he holds out a hand to the witch. "I need to get to Yura before he tries to locate him." 

"Is there anything I can do?" 

As Otabek flies them back to the ballet studio, he neutrally answers, "Pray for a miracle."

* * *

A miracle. 

He doesn't know if he can believe in it, the idea of a miracle. Even as the Interpol team surrounds Plisetsky's house to set up a perimeter, he can't help but think. If he actually believes in the Christian God, then maybe it will be easy to pray. 

But he doesn't and he doesn't pray. 

The comms are busy with Yakov screaming in one end and Mila cracking Apocalypse jokes in the other. Yuuri wishes he can pull out the earpiece and crush it under his foot, but he can't. He needs to keep himself notified about the perimeter, especially when he's right in the living room with Emil, Yuri, and Otabek. 

"Shut up, Mila," Mickey blasts, sitting in the surveillance van. "I'm muting you for a minute. I have something more important to ask. Has anyone seen where Nikolai Plisetsky went? His phone went offline twenty minutes ago at the grocery store only fifteen minutes away." 

That's not a good thing to hear. 

Guang Hong pipes up, "I'll drive to his last location. Leaving position." 

Yuri Plisetsky grouchily says, "It's probably nothing. He can't get to me that fast. Maybe in a week. He's been in Hell for so long I bet his senses have dulled and rotted." 

The witch is honestly surprised Otabek has let them set up sigils and traps around the house. He honestly thought the archangel might have taken off with the antichrist in tow without a second thought. But he doesn't have much time to interrogate him after giving a brief explanation to Otabek's presence. _He's an archangel_ is all he said to the team before they hastily drew anti-demon sigils and salt lines at the windows. He did not answer Phichit's question of how long Yuuri knew he was an archangel and kept it to himself. He will throw a fit once he eventually learns Otabek killed him one life. 

"He finished meeting with the remaining Horsemen," the archangel announces, glancing at the wall, as if it possessed answers. 

The antichrist puts his face in his palms and then sits up. "Beka." 

"You will be alright," the archangel says. "I promise." 

But to the witch, he doesn't look quite that certain. Nonetheless, he kneels in front of the antichrist and puts a gentle hand on top of the teenager's, silently squeezing as if trying to pass reassurance or even hope. In this moment, Yuuri glances away. They look incredibly soft and it's perhaps the only moment they will have before Lucifer comes. 

Emil keeps quiet, silently painting the walls with spray paint. Some unfamiliar sigils are etched upon the very walls. His hands are surprisingly steady. 

Yuuri only wishes he has enough time to ask him what each sigil does. He has never seen lines and accents used in the method Emil utilized. It almost appears to be a language the witch has never seen before, which makes him think of the many tribal sigils that will perhaps never be archived for future generations. If there even will be a future generation. Yuuri can only pull his large spells, one after the other, out of his pockets. 

Even as he lines them all up, he knows it will not be enough. Nonetheless, he puts up an origami box, a swan, an airplane, a hawk, and a few other spells he created over the years. He still has a few hexbags armed and ready to be fired. He can't help but think of Victor, of the way he easily shook off spells as easy as breathing in the past. He can't stop thinking of the way he once tried to kill Otabek but failed because his magic is not strong enough. 

Are they all facing a slaughter? Are they doomed to die today? 

But a part of him hopes Victor is watching out for him. Maybe he will interfere this time around. 

Maybe Victor won't let Yuuri's name be on his fingers when Lucifer holds the witch in his clutches. 

"We are worried about nothing," the teenager says, speaking up to break the silence. Scowling, he claims, "My grandfather will be back. Sooner than you know. It doesn't mean anything at all. His phone runs out of battery all the time." 

He's babbling, Yuuri realizes. He's coming up with explanations for everything, not inherently suspicious like Yuuri and the team is. Maybe it is nothing. But there is always a chance that it is something. 

"Lucifer is coming." Otabek's voice quietly cuts through the antichrist's words. "I feel him breaking the ward on Willis Tower." 

A pause. 

Then Yuri Plisetsky shrieks. "What?" 

"How much time do we have?" Emil asks, cutting in. He shakes the spray paint bottle. "I only have a few more sigils to draw." 

"Ten minutes." 

Yuuri stands, unsure of what to even expect. Is Lucifer going to appear in the living room like he did in his dream? Or is he going to come out of nowhere in a flash of blinding white light? 

Then there's a burst of feedback from Yuuri's earpiece. He shouts, perhaps louder than he intended, "What is going on?" 

"Demons!" Phichit shouts through the line. "A horde of them! They're coming up on Lester Street, and the sigils are holding for now, but there's too many of them!" 

The radio goes in and out. Then it goes out with a finality. 

The witch snaps his head at the paladin. "Get ready," he orders. Pushing up his eyeglasses, he pulls out an origami box of rainbow colors and mutters, "How did they even find out?" 

"They only needed to follow their boss," Otabek answers. "Yura is like a beacon to him." 

"Hey, I'm no one's beacon and no one's archangel condom!" The antichrist yells, his cheeks flushing out of rage. A snap of prickly pheromones stink up the living room. He nervously clenches around his phone, his voice silencing upon receiving everyone's gaze. He slightly shrinks back. "What are you looking at? Huh?" 

Yuuri pulls out his earpiece, still giving off static. "Otabek, how close is he now?" 

"Closing in. Much faster than I thought," the archangel answers. Reaching into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, he pulls out a short glowing dagger, barely longer than a ruler. It looks silver and expensive but also dangerous. 

Yuuri is instantly reminded of Baraqiel's sword. "Is that an archangel's blade?" He can't help but ask that question. 

"Yes," Otabek confirms. 

Everyone stiffens when something slams against the front door. Without eyes outside and the radio failing on them, Yuuri has no way of knowing who it is. Then something hard slams against the door again. And again, as if they are in a horror movie with an axe murderer on the other side. 

"Don't answer it," Emil says, turning himself to block the antichrist from the front door. "Is there another way out of here?" 

"No, you will have to jump into the hag's backyard," Yuri answers. He scowls. "She's going to bitch about how I ruin her roses again." 

"She's going to be the least of your problems," the paladin tells him. "I feel wards coming on, and they do not feel friendly to me at all." 

Yuuri wants to ask how a paladin can feel wards, when he himself, who is a witch, can't until he accidentally walks into a cobweb of them, but he doesn't have any time to ask anymore questions when the doorbell hilariously rings. 

"Knock, knock," greets a deep voice, perhaps trying another option upon realizing the door has been marked with five sigils Emil spray painted. "I come from the solar company." 

"Don't open it," the paladin hisses, a hand in his pocket. His knees are bent, as if ready to tackle whoever comes through the door. "It's not a salesman." 

"I'm being blocked." 

"What?" Yuuri snaps his head back to the archangel. "What do you mean blocked? How can you be blocked?" 

"Lucifer is blocking him from escaping," Emil answers, pulling a Swiss Army knife out of his pocket. His expressions recede, as if he's being turned into stone or a statue. "Run the other way. Yuuri and I will hold him off." 

Yuuri nearly misses the open but speculative look the archangel shoots at Emil. Yuuri notices Otabek's free hand slipping through his sleeve, his hand rooting around inside the leather jacket. 

"I'm not running and neither is Otabek," the antichrist declares, standing up in outrage as if the paladin has kicked his cat into a swimming pool. "We will make our stand here. Shove his ass back into Hell where it belongs!" 

The witch can say one thing, and it's this: that kid really has courage. He honestly would have retreated, jumped the fence, and ruined the neighbor's flowers. Because he knows that this is one battle they're not likely to win. They have the devil trying to knock down the front door and demons surrounding the rest of the team. 

Phichit, Guang Hong, Leo, Mila, Mickey, Yakov. . . Hopefully, they will be fine. But Yuuri has a mission, and it's to prevent Lucifer from gaining Yuri Plisetsky into his grasp. 

The brown front door goes flying, and it's because of his training and practice at dodging that Yuuri doesn't get nailed by it. His eyes adjust to the noon sunlight streaming in through the doorway. 

No, it's not just sunlight. 

Yuuri knows who this man is. He has felt his cold presence before. Once in his dream. The other time in a church located in Florence, Italy. 

It's Lucifer, his skin glowing as if he's got a halo over his dark hair. He's in the body of a caucasian man in his thirties with tattoos running up and down on both arms. He steps through the open door, his muddy boots tracking dirt on the carpet. "I was hoping for a warm welcome." 

Lucifer can occupy other vessels? They don't have to be Yuri Plisetsky? But Yuuri doesn't have time to wonder before Otabek steps forward, forcibly pushing Emil behind him. 

"Brother," Lucifer chuckles, red blood dripping from his cheek. "I'm surprised it was you hiding my rightful vessel." 

Upon closer inspection, the witch realizes that it's not just mud he walks in. It's blood as well, and his face. . . It looks like he's slowly becoming skeletonized, smelling of decay and rot. A morgue that has failed to keep up with its cleaning schedule. 

"Lucifer," Otabek intones, holding out his dagger. "Turn around and do not dare to darken this door again." 

The devil squints, tilting his head and examining Otabek as one might upon encountering a curious insect. "Oh, little brother. You have no chance against me. You only delay what is inevitable." 

"Like hell am I going with you," Yuri Plisetsky spits, cursing from Otabek's shadow. "You go back to the hole you crawled out of if you know what is good for you." 

Lucifer tsks. "What a vessel. One with a severe attitude problem. No matter." He steps forward, just one foot. 

The other archangel steps back, one foot backwards. 

The very air seems to crackle, as if Yuuri is standing in a room loaded with two bombs waiting to go off. He can only watch, witness. He can't stop this, he can't control when the bomb goes off, and he can't disarm it at all. 

Lucifer smiles. "Even with me in this form, in this poor vessel, you know you can't defeat me, Selaphiel. Your only choice today is to watch your own hope die." 

The archangel pulls a red hand out of his leather jacket. His next words are quiet but firm. "Not today." 

"Why are you bleeding?" 

Yuuri blinks. He looks down to the floor, noticing blood dripping down to Nikolai Plisetsky's carpets. That will stain, but the blood can only be coming from Otabek. 

The archangel ignores his older brother, turning back to face everyone else. His eyes find Yuri Plisetsky. "Run. Don't look back." His archangel blade disappears as his dominant hand pulls up his leather jacket to reveal a crudely drawn sigil carved into his very stomach. 

Lucifer's very expression shifts. "Wait, no!" 

There's a flash of white light bursting from Otabek's stomach, glowing from the sigil and blinding the entire room. Two seconds later, the light clears. 

The witch quickly blinks, trying to rapidly clear his vision. Where Lucifer and Otabek once stood is several droplets of blood and footprints. 

Emil sprints into action. He grabs Yuri Plisetsky and kicks down the screen door to the backyard. "We gotta go! Jump the fence!" 

Yuuri shakes himself into motion. With a snap of his fingers, all the origami animals flicker into motion. He gestures to Yuri Plisetsky and orders, "Protect him." He shoves the two origami boxes and the hex bags into his pocket, quickly following the paper birds.

"Shut up, old hag!" The antichrist screams as he streamlines through her rose bushes and tulips. He's held by Emil, who latches onto him with a grip envied by handcuffs. 

Yuuri can barely offer apologies to the seventy or eighty years old woman, his words probably not even in English. He chases after them, his coat billowing behind him. 

"Oh, shit," Emil curses, slowing down as the duo approach a residential street populated by a swarm of people. "I forgot that sigil doesn't dispel demons!" Whipping out his Swiss Army knife, he hits the button, a black sword erupting from seemingly nowhere. 

A paper swan dives one demon trying to grab Yuri. With its powerful wings, it swats away the demon. 

"What is that?" The antichrist shouts. 

But Emil is already moving, seamlessly mowing down a row of demons without flinching. They die instantly, cut down without hesitation by the mysterious blade. 

The paladin is becoming even more of an oddity. Yuuri has never seen a supernatural creature capable of mowing demons so quickly. But he's not given much time to think about it, because he grabs a paper origami box, tosses it at the remaining horde of demons, and commands, "Burst!" 

The paper vibrates and bursts into shreds, providing a loud pop and a force to throw the demons across the street. Some of them land into a vegetable garden, temporarily dazed. 

"Hey!" A familiar face approaches. Phichit, worn and battered but alive, huffs. "Glad to see you are all okay!" 

"Oh, Phichit," Emil calls, his grip still tight on the antichrist. He finally releases his hand. "Keep Yuri safe. And. . ." He reaches into the pockets of his pants, retrieving a small worn notebook. "First page in the book has a sigil that will allow you to hide Yuri from Lucifer. Yuuri and I will stall Lucifer to give you time to draw it in his bones. You only have twenty minutes at most to draw it." 

"In my bones?" The antichrist shrieks. 

Yuuri is beginning to think shrieking may be the only tone of voice he has. 

"It's not going to hurt," the paladin reassures. He turns back to Phichit, words spoken in a rush. He shoves the book into the other witch's hands. "And there are five or so spells that might be of use. You will have to review them once you hide Yuri somewhere safe." 

"How do I know this will even work?" Phichit inquires, hands clutching the notebook. 

"You don't. But please take a leap of faith," Emil begs. "Now run. And Yuuri?" 

"Yes?" The witch straightens at the sound of his name. "What do you need?" 

"I need your help to stall him."

* * *

"There is good news and bad news about the sigil Selaphiel activated," Emil says, barely panting as they run past paramedics and firefighters. His sword has turned back into a Swiss Army knife. "Good news, Lucifer can't fly immediately to the antichrist's location. Bad news is Selaphiel can't immediately get to the antichrist either. There's a temporary no-fly zone for angels in a five mile radius from where it's cast. It will last for fifteen minutes." 

That would also mean Victor can't find Yuuri. Not right away. 

"So Selaphiel is somewhere in the zone?" 

"Yes," the paladin answers, leading Yuuri towards a small business area. 

They find Lucifer a couple of blocks down pulling himself out of a donation box for the homeless. The witch and the paladin stands between a crowd of people with their smartphones out. Don't they know that they should run? 

The fallen archangel sniffs in Yuuri's direction, the skin around his face disturbingly falling off in pieces, revealing the swollen muscle underneath. "You smell like Azrael." 

The witch doesn't flinch. He knows that Lucifer meant Yuuri smells like Victor. It's true. Victor's scent of dark chocolate and faint iron hasn't worn off at all. "Stand down, Lucifer," he orders, his palms sweating. "Go back to Hell, and leave this world alone." 

The archangel smiles. Or he tried to, anyway. The skin around his mouth is falling away. "You're adorable. I can almost see what my brother sees in you. Almost." 

Yuuri doesn't rise to the taunt. He only narrows his eyes, his heart beat steady as he reaches into his pocket for a hexbag. "This is your final warning," he calmly states, a few steps closer to the archangel. 

The devil laughs. "Oh, little witch. What can you do against me?" 

Yuuri's hand throws the hexbag at Lucifer's feet. It plops down between his bare foot, smoke hissing. "Burst," he orders, the magic seizing him. 

And it does, lighting Lucifer on fire, a magical blue flame that doesn't do anything to the archangel. It burns for a moment before extinguishing, disappearing as if Lucifer has never been burned by witchfire. 

The witch is calm. Maybe he won't survive this confrontation with Lucifer. Or maybe he will. But he knows his purpose, and that is to stall, to give Phichit enough time to draw the sigils into Yuri Plisetsky. As he tosses weapon after magical weapon, he feels Lucifer's amusement growing. 

Good. Be entertained. Forget about the goal, the objective of obtaining the antichrist. 

Yuuri is sweating from his temple even as he parts open the very earth with a clap of his hands, having exhausted every origami spell and almost every hexbag in his arsenal. He saves one hexbag for last, the one that has enough power to wipe Yuuri off the face of the earth. 

The witch can't die before then. And so when Lucifer simply floats above the twenty-foot chasm, he kneels on the pavement, out of breath as the world lightly spins. He can barely keep his eyes open as the world begins to swim even wilder. 

"Please," he says, begging aloud. He doesn't know if he's trying to genuinely convince the approaching archangel to spare his life or if he's trying not to pass out. "Please don't." 

The devil drops right in front of Yuuri, a long sword appearing out of nowhere. He tilts his head at the witch, his green eyes calculating. 

Yuuri's vision clears, hand diving into his pocket for the hexbag. He notices Emil quietly walking up behind the archangel and says nothing even as a brief pang of resentment shoots through him. Where was Emil the entire time Yuuri threw magic at the devil to no avail? 

"There are two things we can do with you, witch," Lucifer says, his voice loud and grating. "I would like to send you back to Azrael in pieces. Completely dead. But on the other hand, it would be amusing to see how much of a sway you hold over our dear Horseman." 

"Then kill me," Yuuri whispers, his hand slowly clenching around the last hexbag. 

Lucifer lifts his sword above Yuuri's head. 

That's when Emil finally strikes. With the black sword, he hits the archangel at his side, deliberately at the sword arm. 

Faster than a blink, Lucifer turns and catches the sword with his bare hand. But instead of the neutral, amused look he had on when Yuuri was throwing the entire arsenal at him, he screams in pain. His hand swiftly pulls away from the sword, oozing black blood from the wound on his palm. 

The paladin barely gives him any time to react. He leans down and swipes at the archangel's feet, intending to knock him over. 

Lucifer stepsides, wary of his new opponent. He shakes out his injured hand, hissing. "How dare you," he snarls, as if he thought he was immune to pain. 

"I dare," Emil says, smiling bitterly. The sword wafts, as if made from smoke. "I do dare." 

The archangel spits out a word, a foreign word Yuuri vaguely recognizes as Hebrew. He recognizes the word as _Vomit._ Which is strange and peculiar. A taxi driver in Poland apologized to him for the smell in the backseat. _Vomit._ Yuuri didn't have Hebrew in the European translation spell. But why. . . 

The paladin doesn't reply. He throws himself at Lucifer, dancing in and out between blows as they fiercely duel. 

"Wow! A sword fight! That's awesome!" A voice of a boy drifts over. 

Why are people still watching? Recording? 

Clutching his stomach, Yuuri slowly picks himself up. The world doesn't feel like it is about to become a merry-go-round, but he doesn't think he can walk a single step, much less help Emil with Lucifer. He staggers closer to the rubberneckers and orders, "Clear the area!" 

His voice doesn't sound as commanding as he wished it to be. No one stopped recording nor ran for their lives. In fact, they ignore him in favor of watching Emil quickly dodge Lucifer's sword, trying to jab the archangel. 

The witch digs through his pockets. He doesn't have much left, but he does find a fiction novel in his breast pocket. According to the sticker on the spine, it belonged to the library at Korea University. Yuuri finally found the book he's been missing for so long that he paid a very fat fine for the book. 

He quickly rips out the first page. Using his own thigh with the book tucked under his armpit, he makes a mess with the creases and the jagged edges, but he has an origami box in his palms. Tossing it at the crowd, he croaks, "Burst!" 

That does the trick. The loud sound and resulting bang of papers is almost as startling as a gunshot. Yuuri barely has enough time to pat himself on his own shoulder before something hard hits him from behind, sending him into a donation box. He cries out, not from pain but shock. 

Yuuri rolls off the other omega. "Emil, are you okay?" He asks, gasping as he kicks aside the debris. 

"Peachy," the paladin answers, jumping up without missing a beat. He fixes his hand position on the hilt of his sword, firmly planting himself right between Yuuri and Lucifer. 

Grimacing at the deep cuts in his arm, Lucifer coldly says, "You will get what you deserve for this." He walks forward, suddenly stumbling in shock. Eyes widening, he demands, "What have you done? Did you know what you have done now?"

Emil smirks. "I have a decent idea." 

Breaking all of his composure, Lucifer claps his hands together. He snarls, "I will handle the two of you later." 

A force sends them flying into something. The world bends around and around like a kaleidoscope until darkness is all Yuuri sees now.

* * *

"Yuuri." 

The witch places a comb down on the table. In his lap, Makkachin raises her head, glancing curiously at the alpha leaning against the doorway. Yuuri tilts his head. "Yes, Victor? What is going on?" Japanese flows out his mouth. 

They are in Japan. In Matsuura, but something is wrong. It's not the current incantation of their home but rather a previous version. The one Otabek, then-Selaphiel, visited. The one the Archangel of Hope eventually destroyed. 

"If you have a child," he asks, slowly sinking to the floor right besides the witch, "what would their name be?" 

Curling into Victor's warmth, Yuuri hums in thought. "Girl or boy?" 

"Why not both?" The alpha slowly presses a kiss against the back of Yuuri's head. "It can be either a boy or a girl we may have in the future." 

"Yes. . ." Yuuri closes his eyes, fingers running through Makkachin's fur. "If it's a girl, then I want Saki. It means blossom." 

"It also means hope." 

"Yes," the witch confirms. "I think it's a pretty name." 

A pause. "What about a boy?" 

"Ren." Yuuri smiles. "It means lotus." 

"Blossom and lotus. You like the flower names," Victor notes. A hand snakes around Yuuri's abdomen. "I can't wait to see them one day." 

Then the scene shifts, melting away. 

Yuuri is walking briskly now. A prison? He's not certain where he is, but he nods at every Japanese soldier as if he belongs here. He rapidly approaches a door with two armed Japanese soldiers in uniform standing outside a door. They dress as if they're in the 20th century. Maybe around the World War I era. 

"Yuuri Katsuki to see the prisoner," the witch says, his voice steady. 

One soldier steps forward. "We have been expecting you." 

The door opens. 

Yuuri steps in, eyes adjusting to the dim light flickering overhead. The only door in this room creaks and shuts behind the witch. He's alone. With this monster. "I'm Yuuri Katsuki," Yuuri merely speaks, addressing the dark figure in the shadows. 

"I have been expecting you," the general rasps. He stands up from a bed, a sword gleaming in his hand. It glows in the shadow. 

Yuuri steps back, standing defensively. "I thought the guards were supposed to remove all weapons from prisoners." 

"They can't if they can't see it." The general places the sword down on the bed. His face appears between the prison bars. He appears Japanese with thick grey hair and a sharp, hawkish nose. He's taller than Yuuri, taller than most men. 

Yuuri knows that he can appear as anyone. He can change his appearance like a shapeshifter from the myths. Except it is not a monster he turns into. He changes his faces. It took a better part of a year for the hunters to even find him. "You instigated the Russo-Japanese War." 

"I didn't do anything," the general says, chuckling. His hands curl around the bars. "Humans did everything. A little push here and there, and they are eager to go to war. Violence is ingrained in their very blood. Do you think humanity has ever been peaceful?" 

"I don't think your influence over the Emperor and his advisers and the army helped. You enabled them," the witch accuses. "A hundred thousand people died. More than a hundred thousand." 

"Yes, I suppose I am a catalyst. But let me assure you that your emperor signed every order himself. He didn't need me to whisper ideas into his ears." The general smiles. "You think a hundred thousand is something? You haven't seen anything yet." 

"You will be in this prison cell, long enough to see yourself rot," Yuuri declares, suppressing a shiver at the thought of a bloodier war. "You won't see the next war." 

"On the contrary." A pause as the general smiles wider at him in amusement. "I think I will see plenty of wars. Humans. They haven't learned how to keep peace, and if they did. . . Well, they will quickly grow bored and start a war."

"You're wrong." 

"You will soon find yourself wrong at the cost of millions of lives.” The general turns his head, staring at the dark walls of his cell. “There is another war brewing over the horizon. Humanity will soon learn how fast they can destroy each other. If they don’t know how to contain themselves. . . This world, which is the only one they have, will be gone forever for them.” 

Yuuri repeats himself. “You won’t see the next war.”

The general returns his gaze to the witch. “I only stayed here as long as I could to see you, Yuuri Katsuki. I admit I was curious. Your suitor, Victor Nikiforov, didn’t introduce you to us when we gathered for a small party last month.” In a smaller voice, he mutters, “He never does.” 

“Who is us?”

“Some old friends. Two other old friends.” The general returns to his bed, the cot reinforced against the wall. He is careful not to sit on his own sword. “I won’t be staying here for long, but I will return to Japan one day. It’s a nice place.”

“Why did you stay? Just to see me?” 

The general folds his hands neatly in his lap. “Not entirely. There is something coming. You won’t feel this and you won’t see it until a hundred and so years have passed. A great dark force has set the wheels and gears into motion in this very moment, eager to destroy this entire world. You’re going to need my help if you want to defeat that force.”

The witch raises his eyebrow. Folding his arms over his chest, he says in undisguised disbelief, “Let’s say I believe you. I believe that a great dark force is coming. What makes you think you can help defeat it?” 

The general lifts his sword, his palms holding it by the flat side of the blade. “This can help,” he tells him, his tone serious. “This can defeat the dark force. It can vanquish it long enough that it will take perhaps a few thousand years for it to regain strength. Maybe even longer, depending on how the dominos fall.” He sets it back down, resting it on his pillow. “One day, you will need my help. It will take years for you to accept my help. But until then, I will be here waiting for you.”

“I thought you were going to escape from your cell.” 

“Oh, I am,” the general confirms. “But I’m always right with you. My offer of help will sit and languish in the dark corner of your mind for a century. It will take years for you to remember, to trigger my own magic. But it will. Until then, you stumble in the dark.” 

Yuuri narrows his eyes. “You happily took part in the Russo-Japanese War. You gave suggestions to the generals, and you ordered the army’s movements for months to slaughter the Russians. Why do you care about the end of the world?”

“I am War,” the general announces, slowly rising from the bed. “What is war without humanity? What is war when everyone dies? I do not exist nor am I needed when no one can fight. Humanity doesn’t need me. I need humans to live.”

* * *

Yuuri cries aloud, his face pressed against the dirt. He’s sweating, as if he’s suffering through extreme temperatures and his very blood is boiling in his veins. His head feels as if it’s about to be split open, as if someone has taken a hammer and decided to open up the witch’s skull from the inside. Yuuri is muttering under his breath, a constant line of _please, please, please_ drawing out of his lips. 

“I’m trying,” says Emil, sounding panicked. “Please stay alive.” 

“Hurts,” Yuuri murmurs. 

“This has never happened before. . .” 

Then another vision seizes Yuuri, and Yuuri’s somewhere else— 

Sitting in a little cafe, the general waves from the corner. Dressed in an impressive army uniform with the Austro-Hungarian insignia over his breast, War sips carefully from his teacup. 

Yuuri slowly approaches, his fingers nervously twisting a wedding ring bang. He sits across from the Horseman. "So you have escaped Japan for Europe." 

The general replies in flawless Japanese, "The Great War strikes. I come when humans call. It is not my fault they decided to kill the Archduke." 

"So this is the war where a million lives will be lost?" Yuuri doesn't wait for an answer. "The trenches are treacherous, and men die of hunger, disease, and war." 

"You listed my two other friends," casually notes the general. "I'm surprised you have accepted my invitation for lunch. I thought I might have needed to sneak into your home while your husband is out." 

"I thought he was your friend." 

"If I tried talking to you about the end of the world and was caught by your husband, I would find myself somewhere in Siberia. Chained underneath a mountain or thrown into a volcano, I suppose. Your husband is not a man to be crossed. He is fiercely protective of you," the general says, as if merely speaking of the gloomy weather. "He does not care for friendship if he finds me telling you this." 

Yuuri absorbs this. "I don't think I can trust someone who has powers like yours. Whispering into men's ears and telling them the ways of killing." 

The general snorts. "I don't need to do that. Humans. As an individual, it's so easy to say one wants peace and not war. But as a group, they want war. They love war. They hunger for war. It's only after they survive do they realize war is not an option. But humans have short memories. Their children grow up wanting to fight." 

"There may be hope for peace. This may be the war that ends all wars." 

A pause. 

The general tilts his head, and he takes one long pointed sip from his tea. "Do you really believe that? The war to end all wars? We can look at Imperial Russia, so beaten by Imperial Japanese not even ten years ago. They already fall into the bed of another war. No. Humans won't be able to resist, and Germany. . . There is a long story to be told there." 

The witch ignores the mention of Germany. He shakes his head at the waitress, who briefly comes to pour the general more tea and to ask Yuuri if he wants anything. Once she goes to attend another table, Yuuri leans in and says, "Tell me about the end of the world." 

The general sets down his teacup in the saucer. "The end of the world will begin in the 21st century, if the dark force's legions do their war preparation properly. If they follow their schedule. There will be a boy born in less than a century, created and curated by the legion to be strong enough to contain the force's power in one body." 

"Like possession? Like how a ghost may possess a human?" 

"Yes. And no." The general frowns, scratching at his dirty blonde beard. "He takes full control over the body. The limbs, the fingers, the mouth. It will last longer than a typical possession by a ghost, and unlike a ghost possession, the entity can't be exorcised." 

"It's an entity?" 

"Like a god," the general elaborates. "But don't call him a god. He would be pleased if he is called one. If he possesses an average human like our waitress, her body would begin deteriorating quickly under the stress of his power. The entity will not be able to fully use his power either. He must possess that boy." 

Something suddenly slaps Yuuri across the face. The witch blinks, his vision clearing until all he can see is Emil nervously grinning down at him. 

"Yuuri, I need you to work with me," he whispers. "We need to clear this area before they notice us lingering too long." 

The paladin's words can barely be processed. Every inch of Yuuri hurts, and his head is the worst offender. Yuuri has never suffered a migraine this bad, not even while having a hangover after a night of drinking with Phichit. "What. . . What," Yuuri stumbles, lying supine on a mangled mess of tree roots. 

The paladin looks slightly relieved. "Well, at least you are with me this time. You think you can turn over onto your side?" 

Yuuri groans as he lifts his shoulder. The very effort feels taxed, as if someone has taken to stomp all over Yuuri's bones and toss them back into the witch's body. "It hurts," he breathes, finally on his side with the help of Emil. 

"Yeah, I have never seen anyone react this way before," the paladin says, wincing. "You think you can walk? I'll help." 

Yuuri doesn't think he can even twitch a finger. But he nods, panting. "I'll move." His eyes can barely focus on anything, and he asks, "Where's my glasses?" 

Emil quickly places the spectacles on Yuuri's face. "I was worried you might break them and get glass shards into your eyes. You were thrashing around against the rocks over there." 

"Thanks." Yuuri slowly pushes himself up, feeling his migraine somewhat reside. He glances around, noting they are in a forest of some sort with trees growing tall and thick with strange green-grey leaves. "Where are we? Where's Lucifer? Did we die?" 

The paladin pauses, hesitating. "I'll tell you that after we sneak by the Behemoth." 

"The what?"

“Behemoth.” Emil raises his arm, pointing to a grey mass of something ten meters away lurking in between trees. “That is a Behemoth. We have to move before it notices us.” 

Yuuri turns his head. “That’s an elephant.” 

“It’s not an elephant. I know what an elephant is,” Emil insists, hurriedly pulling Yuuri up from the ground. “That thing eats leaves for breakfast and bones for a snack. It’s not something we want to be around.” 

Yuuri doesn't protest as an arm wraps behind his back. 

Emil forcibly drags the witch the other direction. "Thankfully, they are slow, but with you being incapacitated, I didn't want to stay around." 

The pain finally disappears once the duo find a black water lake, murky with undulating shadows moving underneath. 

The paladin curses. "We are much further from the entrance than I originally thought." 

That is when Yuuri can't take the mystery anymore. He narrows his eyes and demands, "Okay, what is going on? Where are we and where is Lucifer?" 

Emil bites his lips. "Lucifer is still back on earth. We're alive, because he sent us here, probably so he can torture us after he destroys the world." 

"Where is here?"

Silence. 

Yuuri can see the FBI agent hesitating. "Emil, you better tell me where we are." 

A pause. 

Then Emil says, "Welcome to Purgatory, the land of monsters." 


	5. Leviathan II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holding on to You by Twenty One Pilots

"Wait. What do you mean Purgatory?" Yuuri says, blinking as his eyes wander around and around. Scanning over the tree, looking at the world as if seeing through a grey-tinted filter. "You are saying that this forest is Purgatory? And what is even going on, Emil? How did you know how to slow Lucifer down? How did you know Lucifer set up wards around the Plisetsky house? How do you even know this place?" Questions fall from his lips, one after another. 

The witch knows he should stop. He should throw the questions one at a time so the paladin can get a chance to understand and answer the question. But he's been slapped around by Lucifer and he's been apparently thrown into a place that Otabek, the Archangel of Hope, wouldn't willingly venture with Yuri Plisetsky. 

"It's a long story." 

The witch pulls away from him, slightly swaying but steady. "Then make time," he demands. Frustration sinks deep into his stomach. It's as if he's been tossed into a rollercoaster and handcuffed at the back, forced to ride the last two hours or so through some vertical loops and cobra rolls without the safety bar in his lap. "Emil, tell me what is going on." 

"We have to follow along the lake," Emil says, gesturing towards the distance. "We need to get you through the exit before something kills you and you remain here forever." 

"What?" 

"Come on. I'll tell you as we go," the paladin promises, clutching Yuuri's arm and drawing him closer to the lake until they are merely twenty feet away. "We can't stay here or else they'll notice." 

The witch moves, carefully walking over tree roots and large black rocks. "Who are they?" 

"I don't know their true name, but they are the inhabitants of Purgatory. The behemoths are the other creatures we want to avoid." A pause. "We call them Leviathans. You will know when you see them." 

That doesn't sound good. 

Yuuri seizes on a small detail in Emil's words. "What do you mean by we?" 

"There are some supernatural creatures who are here. Vampires, werewolves, witches, some humans. . . We make up a small population in Purgatory," the paladin explains, his voice growing quieter. He rubs his face with his hands, unable to get the layer of dust off. "I forgot how dirty this place is." 

They pass by a few trees and a sapling. 

Yuuri finds it odd how he doesn't hear any birds, just the sound of their footfalls and his own breaths. "Tell me your story. The long story." 

"Well. . ." Emil pauses. "I wasn't born here. I was born on earth. I didn't know my mother. I didn't know it at the time, but she was killed by my father." 

The witch stares at him. He doesn't even know what to say. What is the social etiquette in this situation? 

The paladin continues without missing a beat. "I was raised by my father's creation, who trained me how to fight. I learned how to draw and create sigils. I was creative, and my father noticed my gifts, so he recruited me into his war. I was considered the brightest of his children. I slaughtered dozens of his enemies. My. . . Nanny, I suppose, said it was impressive how far I've come, because on the day I was born, my mother handed me to my father. I threw up all over him. He killed her for what I did." 

"That's messed up," the witch mutters. But there is something in his mind tickling him. Has he heard this story before? 

Yes. 

He had. 

_Lucifer once stole away a woman from her tribe. She already had a husband, but Lucifer interfered anyway, upon seeing her attractiveness. She bore him a son, a small thing she timidly brought to Lucifer. It was amusing, for a single moment, when the son threw up on Lucifer’s lap. Amusing. Then she died with Lucifer smiting the very place she stood and blaming her for his son’s minor transgression. I collected her soul._

And from the very mouth of the Archangel of Hope, words spoken to Yuuri in a dream. 

_Do I believe we must prevent Nephilims? I don't know, for I do not understand their full power. One Nephilim, Lucifer's son who was named a rather poor name that deserves not to be mentioned, managed to slaughter dozens of my brothers. Angels. Perhaps they can be as powerful as an angel or perhaps not. We don't know, because we have locked away all the Nephilims, guilty or innocent, into Purgatory._

The witch stares at the back of Emil's head, realization hitting him. "Emil," he says, nearly stumbling over his own thoughts. "Your father. . . He was an angel, wasn't he?" 

Emil stops in his tracks. "How did you know?" 

The dots suddenly connect. "You're a Nephilim, not a paladin. You are half-angel, half-human." 

The other man's eyes widen. "How did you know that?" 

Yuuri ignores his question. "And your father was Lucifer." 

A moment of surprise. Then he breathes, stunned, "That's correct."

* * *

It's a lot to take in. But it's not as much as the small headache lingering inside of Yuuri's head, stomping around and swinging a champagne bottle with glee. Emil being a Nephilim is just another surprise detail. Like how Victor is Death and also an angel and maybe a primordial force. Like how Otabek is the Archangel of Hope who, for some reason untold, probably stole Yuri Plisetsky away from a hospital and killed Yuuri in a past life. It's just another detail Yuuri must take in. 

Purgatory is strange. His head becomes clearer with each step, and the very air seems to be fresh, as fresh and pure as a Canadian forest. No pollen, no Apocalypse, no distractions. Just him and Emil and his thoughts and memories. 

Memories. 

Almost three thousand years worth of memories jostle in his brain, twisting and grasping for Yuuri's attention. _Remember this? Remember me?_ Yuuri remembers dancing in an old version of Yutopia, getting drunk off of sake as he danced shamelessly with Victor for the first time in their lives. He remembers the first time he sank deep into Victor, their fingers intertwine as the setting sun splashes them with orange and red sunlight through a window. He remembers how they adopted Makkachin, discovering a hellhound eagerly taking advantage of traveling merchants and robbing them in the dark. 

It took a large bowl of katsudon to convince her to move in with them at Matsuura. And a pair of Victor's sandals, fresh off the alpha's feet. 

Yuuri wants to wallow in the memories, holding them up in his palms as he remembers each one once more. He remembers all those days spent with Victor in their past lives. Sometimes, Yuuri would be at home, gardening and reorganizing their home. Victor would be ferrying souls to their resting place in the meanwhile. Other times, Yuuri is out hunting for rogue supernatural creatures and destroying ghosts while Victor is at home with Makkachin and trying to satisfy her voracious appetite. 

"How did you know?" Emil asks, ducking underneath some low tree branches. 

"Someone once told me your story," Yuuri explains. "And then you said it and I remembered. But. . . I thought the Great Flood wiped out all Nephilims on earth. How did you remain on earth?" 

"I didn't." Emil shakes his head. "When the demon told me how my mother died, I had a revelation. The demons and the fallen angels do not see us as their own. They see us as weapons to use against Heaven. Nephilims are peculiar. We don't have the same power as angels, but we have some immunity against angels and some of their strength. We are an ideal weapon against Heaven. But once our usefulness has been outlived, they would put us down. Like a sick, aging mule." 

"So you stopped fighting for your father?" 

"Before the Great Flood, I went to the river and prayed to my father's enemy. The Creator. I asked for a means of living, a way where we can live without fear from Heaven or Hell. A way where we can grow up and die in peace like humans." 

"Then what happened?" 

Emil shrugs. "The Great Flood. Archangels descended from Heaven to toss Nephilims into Purgatory. A few fallen angels, who loved their children enough, followed us in." 

"But this place. . . It doesn't like angels," Yuuri notes, remembering Otabek's words. 

_There is one other place, but I can't protect him there. It's not an option._

"Yes," Emil confirms. "They all died eventually." 

"So how did you get out?" 

"I kept praying, hoping for an answer. One day, while drinking from the river here, I heard a voice speaking in my mind," Emil says, his face taking on a wondrous expression. “It said, ‘You have prayed for so long for a miracle for your brothers and sisters. Now, I give you the chance to make your past wrongs right.’” 

The witch stares at him. “That can’t be who I think it is.”

Emil pauses in his step. “Yuuri, the archangels sealed me and other Nephilims in here. How could I get out of Purgatory on my own?"

"But you said there is an exit." 

"That exit won't work for me or the Nephilims. It will work for you, though. You're alive and you can make it through.”

“How are you getting out of here?”

“I don’t.” 

"Maybe it will work for you," Yuuri tells him, determined. "If you got out of here once, then it could happen again." 

Emil resumes walking. "Maybe." But he sounds quite doubtful. "I got out. One second, I was here. Then I was sitting in the FBI office working on a vampire case. I don't know if I replaced the real Emil Nekola, but everyone had memories of me. I had to learn how to live in the modern world. Cell phones, computers. . . It wasn't easy, but no one questioned it too hard, because I apparently was discharged from the hospital with severe head injuries. The general consensus was that I should have retired. Left for an easier job like a security consultant." 

"When did you arrive?" 

"Two years ago." He runs a hand through his grimy hair and straightens his suit and the tattered remains of his tie. "Six months ago, I heard the voice in my head again. It told me this: 'Protect the firebird.' I've been looking for the firebird a long time, but I haven't found it." 

"Protect the firebird.' That's all it said?" But Yuuri can't help but realize how cryptic the order may seem to the other man. 

"Yeah. I sure didn't find a firebird before I ended back in here," Emil mutters, kicking at an exposed tree root. 

"A firebird?" 

"Yes." 

"You were looking for a firebird." 

"Well, yes." Emil shoots him a strange look. 

Yuuri lets out a soft laugh of disbelief. "Is the Creator typically cryptic when They speak to you?" 

"I thought the instruction regarding the firebird was not cryptic. It's straightforward, right?" 

"Emil," the witch pauses, slightly smiling in amusement. "Three thousand years ago, my sister cast a spell to keep our parents and me together forever. To keep us immortal, never dying. The Grim Reaper intervened in the spell, because it would have made us too powerful and arrogant. Instead of an immortality spell, we are spelled to live, die, and be reborn." 

The Nephilim trips, catching himself before he lands face-first into the dirt. He spins around, staring at Yuuri. "Wait. But that is what a firebird does. You don't have a bird form, right?" 

"Nope." 

"A firebird lives. It can be killed or simply die of old age, but it is reborn from the ashes. The cycle renews." 

"Yes. I live. I die. I am born again." 

Emil frowns. "But why. . ." He mutters some words under his breath, continuing on. "Ah, never mind. Let's get you back to earth." 

Yuuri looks at him suspiciously, but the witch does not push any further. "Where exactly is the exit?" 

"The heart of Purgatory," he answers. "It's where the exit is at. It's right by the waterfall and the main river flowing into this lake. But. . ." 

"But what?" 

"Most of Purgatory's monsters live near the exit. The closer we get, the more monsters we will run into. And. . . The more dead bodies and corpses." 

Yuuri doesn't dare ask whose corpses those belong to. He lets out a slow exhale, breathing out from his nose. Perhaps it will be better to keep quiet, keep an eye out for these monsters. Behemoths and the one other monster Emil didn't describe, the Leviathans. 

The other man is the first to break the silence. 

"Purgatory," huffs Emil, carefully stepping over a thick tree root. "There's no place like it." 

"Yeah." 

"It feels like communism." 

"Uh," Yuuri chokes, eyes boggling. He doesn't think so. "I don't think it is anything like communism." 

"Yeah, yeah. That's not the right word." Emil strokes his beard in thought. Then his eyes lit up, fingers snapping. "Wait, actually. Marxism." 

The witch resists the great urge to facepalm. 

Emil notices anyway, laughing at the expression on the witch's face. "No, really. Let me say why it is like Marxism. Well, not really. But specifically to something Karl Marx said." He pauses, "Back on earth, you have a structure set in place. A figurative structure. There's the base, which is the truth of the world. For Marx, it is the people and their relationship to the means of production. Owner, the exploited worker. But there is also a superstructure, which is religion, art, culture, music, celebrities, and all that stuff. It's designed to prevent you from seeing the base." 

Yuuri raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't say anything. 

"But, here is the point I'm trying to make. In Purgatory, there is no superstructure here. No art. No music. No awesome pop music or ridiculous discussions about whether tacos are real Mexican food or whether or not Starbucks should have Christmas decorations on their cups. Just the base, which is nothing but the truth. It's like Purgatory has pulled back the veil, so you can only see the truth. You can feel it." 

But now Yuuri understands the point. “It’s like Purgatory purifies you.” 

The other man smiles. “Exactly.” 

Yeah, Yuuri can see it. Over here, the bureaucracy Interpol puts on all employees is washed away. There's not much that truly matters in the world, but the things that does. . . Friendship, love, family. . . They need to be remembered and cherished. 

And Victor. 

Purgatory is still quiet. No birds, no sound of the trees rustling in the wind. Between him and Emil, there is only the sound of their footfalls and their very breaths. 

Hair rises on the back of Yuuri's neck. 

It feels like Purgatory is holding back an exhale. The very land is awaiting them, watching them. 

The witch tries not to focus on it too hard, or else he may grow to fear the very sound of his heart beat. He, after all, has three thousand worth of memories to sift through. Some of the memories have faded, grown dim over the years. The memories of daily chores makes him softly smile; though Yutopia may have changed over the years because of storms and time, the chores of sweeping and attending to the hot springs haven't. What the Katsukis have done over three thousand years have remained the same, withstanding the test of time. 

He thinks about domestic life with Victor. They've been married seven times. If Yuuri adds up all the years spent in marital bliss and domesticity, the witch will find at least three hundred years or so they've spent in marriage. Little other facts pop up here and there. Yuuri's first marriage has the quickest courtship period, barely one at all. At that time, Mari kept teasing about the handsome alpha who managed to catch the eye of one omega who couldn’t be satisfied by anyone else in Hasetsu. Yuuri kept reminding her it was only two alphas, not the entire town. 

The most recent marriage had the longest courtship and the second shortest marriage. The Russo-Japanese War's version of Yuuri was reluctant, cautious. He knew something was different about Victor, but he didn't know why. 

But he knows now. It's bizarre how Victor took a long time to explain that he was Death to that version of Yuuri. 

Another memory crawls up, and Yuuri chokes out, "He gave my shoes to Makkachin!" 

"What?" 

"Nothing," the witch blurts. One time, Yuuri bought a pair of spectacularly ugly shoes. Victor claimed it was an eyesore, which it was. But Yuuri, being stubborn and refusing to let a pair of perfectly usable shoes go to waste, wore it for years and still had it when he passed away. 

In the next life, Victor, in a bizarre moment of their courtship, took out Yuuri's old, dusty, ugly shoes and tossed them to Makkachin to eat. She sniffed it once, her nose upturned in disgust. 

And Makkachin. . . Vicchan is also guilty of abusing and taking advantage of the Katsukis' forgotten memories to get extra meals or to get out of trouble. Vicchan is not allowed to drink out of the hot springs while a guest is in the pool, but he does it anyway every fifty years or so. Guests don't like it when a supposedly small dog suddenly drinks ten inches of water out of the hot springs. Vicchan can be quite thirsty. 

"Time moves differently." 

"Huh? What do you mean?" 

"Time in Purgatory moves differently than time on earth," Emil elaborates. "I hope time hasn't moved too much on earth. It might. . . Or it might not." 

The witch strolls around a tree and then suddenly pauses in front of a decaying corpse resting against the trunk with a gaping, toothless smile. There's little flesh on the bones, and he, which Yuuri can tell by the pelvic bone, has been here for a long time. 

The other man doesn't look too surprised by this corpse. Emil tilts his head briefly and then looks away, staring through the tree trunks. "Lake is that way," he informs, raising his arm. His worn leather shoe nudges the skeletonized foot. "This is the Old Man of the North, so we are still quite far away from the exit portal. There are about thirty corpses between here and the exit." 

"Of the north?" Yuuri glances up, his eyes squinting through the scattered tree leaves. It's difficult to tell the sun's position. "How do you even know which way is north?"

"Moss on some trees. They only grow north. The sun never sets here," Emil explains, resuming his steps. "But that's the thing in Purgatory. You never grow hungry, you never age, you never starve. We don't need food for nourishment, but I will kill for a hamburger and french fries right now." 

That's assuming there is even a fast food restaurant once Lucifer is done pillaging the world. But Yuuri keeps his dark thoughts to himself. He can't focus on the gloom and doom of the Apocalypse, even as a small part of him wonders about the state of the world. 

"Can Nephilims die here?" 

"No. Well. . . It is a complicated thing. Some of us are dead, because the angels killed us in the Great Flood while some of the others were tossed in here. We all ended up here, dead or alive. Then we learned how welcoming Purgatory is." A pause. "That is. . . Very unwelcoming. The original inhabitants would love to kill, but we only respawn. Just in time for them to kill us again." 

"But the corpses." 

"We don't respawn forever. Unlike the behemoths and Leviathans we kill." A pause. "Some of those corpses would be the humans. And a few angels. We should be closing in on Ezekiel." 

Yuuri is almost afraid to ask. "Is Ezekiel a corpse?" 

"Oh, he's right by the lake," Emil says, a little too cheerfully when he is discussing a corpse. "Maybe ten yards in front of us. He's really hard to miss." 

The witch absolutely abhors how right Emil is. The corpse, which is not really a corpse, is impossible to miss. 

Scorched prints of wings are permanently burned into the earth. They span three meters, dark black against the dirt. Even the lake water can't wash away the imprints of wings. Every brush, every stroke, every fiber, every detail. It's so beautiful, but. . . 

"This is Ezekiel," Emil informs. "Well, it was Ezekiel. He's been eaten by behemoths, but he was killed. . ." Emil's voice drifts off. 

"Killed by what?" 

The other man glances around, and then he drops his voice into a whisper. "We don't actually know what they are, but they negatively affect angels. Far more than they affect Nephilims, vampires, witches, or even humans. It is like they are the anti-angels. You will know what they are when we see it. The Leviathans, that is." 

That doesn't sound good. In the Bible, the Leviathan is a great sea serpent, a monster dangerous and powerful. Chris once mentioned that the prison in Hell was defended by a Leviathan. But from the stricken and pale way Emil acted and spoke, the witch suspects it is not a great sea serpent they need to watch out for. 

Nevertheless, he keeps an eye out on the lake. He is even more wary of the dark shadows lurking underneath the surface. What if there is a Leviathan underneath the lake? 

He doesn't voice that thought aloud. 

"I wish I can go to Naomi's house for supplies," Emil mutters, pulling out his Swiss Army knife and spinning it around and around in his hands. "It would be nice to have another sword. Or a knife. Maybe a crossbow." 

"Is your knife spelled? Like when you hit the switch, the sword pops out?" Yuuri softly inquires. 

"Yeah, pretty cool, huh? Naomi is gifted, and it is easier to carry a knife than a sword. Less weight in this form. Still a shame that we can’t visit them. It’s out of the way.”

“How far out of the way?”

Emil hums. “They’re in the opposite direction of Purgatory’s exit. The monsters like to converge around the exit. It’s weird, because they can’t go through it, but I think they want to stop anyone else from going through. The farther we get from the exit, the less monsters there are. Less behemoths, less Leviathans.” 

Yuuri hears the real meaning.

The closer they get to the exit, the more monsters there are. More behemoths, more Leviathans. And more corpses. He hasn’t forgotten what the other man said in that regard. 

“They’re super sweet,” Emil says. “Naomi and Ruth.” 

That has Yuuri pausing, his eyes widening in shock. “Wait, do you mean. . .?” He can’t help but remember Naomi and Ruth. He can’t help but recall the dark copy of Book of Mara laying out before him in a conference room in Lyon, France a long time ago. 

What was it that Mickey said? 

_The story goes that Naomi was a witch. A Soul-eater who killed a lot of people. This was before and after she lost her sons. She spent some years as Mara, creating spellwork and heinous rituals. All of it is written down in the book. She kept herself young and immortal by absorbing people's lives. She stopped being Mara when she fell in love with Ruth. It was a pivotal moment in the Book of Ruth, when Ruth devoted herself to Naomi._

_Ruth was most likely not a witch. Ruth famously said to Naomi, “'Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried.”_

He frowns at the memory of Victor saying something similar, his own version of what Ruth said to Naomi a long time ago.

_Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay. And I will wait for you, for as long as you need me._

Victor has said this multiple times to Yuuri. Memories crawl up to Yuuri’s eye; he pushes them all back down, carefully returning them to his box of memories. He doesn’t need to see all the times his alpha quoted Ruth and remade the words into his own. It’s not important at the moment. 

Emil laughs. “They would find it funny to hear that the Bible, a collection of religious texts, includes them. Naomi never hid away her past as a. . . Fairly evil witch. That’s the most frank I can put it.” In a quieter voice, Emil notes, “Naomi killed a lot of humans for her experiments. Tortured, actually. That's why she ended up here. According to one angel, Heaven didn't want her to be sent to Hell, where she could be warped so heavily against Heaven. She could have been a powerful demon. So into Purgatory, she went." 

"And Ruth? How did she end up in Purgatory?" The witch can't help but remember the note Naomi left in her grimoire. _I want to know what’s beyond. I hope you're there. I'm sorry what you've said is true. Death does separate us. I'm sorry._

“Well. . .” Emil smiles. “She did go to Heaven. At first. But then she convinced an angel. . . Begged an angel to take her to Naomi once she found out where she was. She wouldn’t let Naomi be alone. She made a promise, you see. She told Naomi when they were still alive that wherever Naomi goes, she will go. Wherever she stays—”

“She stays.” After a pause, Yuuri finishes the quote, “‘Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried.’” 

“Huh. You actually know what they’ve said,” Emil notes. “So the angel agreed to take her, because he was so moved by Ruth’s love and devotion. They came to Purgatory’s exit. . . The entrance.” The Nephilim pauses, face twitching. 

“You’re having a hard time naming it.” 

“I’ve never gone through it,” Emil admits, stepping over more tree roots and wincing upon making another grand step over a withered corpse. “I only know from Ruth’s account. Naomi doesn’t really know and none of the Nephilims knew at that time. Ruth is the one who knew it was an exit out of Purgatory, because the angel told her.” 

“Oh. . . So we don’t know if it even works?” 

“It works. I think. At least, it worked for the angel.” The Nephilim cheerfully continues, “So they came here, but it took a while to find Naomi, because she was on the outskirts of Purgatory. They had to fight Leviathans and behemoths for a year before they finally found a Nephilim who could lead them straight to Naomi. They were finally reunited, and then we had to gather a small force of Nephilims to escort the angel out of Purgatory. Because he was weak and the Leviathans wanted to eat him. They could hone on him like homing pigeons.” 

“Were you part of the team?”

“No. I was considered, but Naomi said no due to my bloody history of killing dozens of angels. She picked five Nephilims whose hands were relatively clean, and they successfully protected him all the way through.”

“There are Nephilims who are innocent?”

“A lot of Nephilims here didn’t participate in the war against Heaven,” Emil says. 

“And they were sent here to Purgatory anyway?” 

The Nephilim shrugs, helpless. “Not that fair, isn’t it?” 

“No,” Yuuri agrees. “Not at all.” 

They walk around another dead corpse with a tree branch stabbing through the rib cage. Yuuri doesn’t bother to ask whose corpse this belongs to. The witch has seen too many already, and after a while, they all seem to blur into one another. Thankfully, none of them possess the usual smell that fresh corpses carry. 

“That angel.”

“What?”

“Who was that angel? The angel’s name?”

Emil frowns, finger scratching at his beard. “I believe his name was Selaphiel.” 

Yuuri nearly stops in his tracks, stunned. “Selaphiel?” he repeats, unable to believe his own ears. “Are you saying Selaphiel, the Archangel of Hope?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

“Otabek Altin,” Yuuri pauses. “Yes. He’s the Archangel of Hope.” 

Emil now really stops in his tracks. “Otabek. As in the twenty year old dude you said was an archangel way back before Lucifer attacked us. You’re saying he is Selaphiel, the Archangel of Hope?” 

“Yes.” 

The Nephilim frowns, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “But I wonder why he decided to stand up against the Apocalypse. Against Heaven, against Hell, against what is supposedly the last chapter in the Creator’s book.” A pause. “I read the case files. All of it. Yuri disappeared from the hospital sixteen years ago. A private hospital with incredible care, and he was swapped with another baby. So we have Selaphiel. . .”

"Guarding Yuri." 

"I wonder if he was the one who switched Yuri and Ivan Petrovich," Emil muses, stepping over a femur. "We never did find out who stole Yuri Plisetsky away from the hospital, did we?" 

"No. It could have been Nikolai Plisetsky, though." 

"But he officially died a few years after the switch and Mila didn't find any neighbors noticing Nikolai Plisetsky with a baby," Emil points out, scratching his beard in thought. "So who had Yuri Plisetsky for the first few years?" 

"Otabek?" 

"I don't see any other possibilities." 

"But why would he steal Yuri Plisetsky from the hospital?" Yuuri ponders aloud. He tries to put himself in the shoes of a stoic archangel. If Otabek stole away the baby antichrist, what did he have to gain from it? Or did he feel like he had to do it? 

A small part of Yuuri supplies, _he stole away the baby to deny the oncoming Apocalypse as petty revenge for Victor's curse._

They walk on in silence, ducking underneath branches stretching out like wrinkled hands. The forest looks more dead here, and when Emil completely leads them away from the lake, the witch can't help but be wary of the growing shadows. Is it the tree's shadow? Or something even more sinister? 

The sun may never set in Purgatory, but it seems eerily darker here. 

"Emil?" 

"Yes?" 

"How do you track time in Purgatory? When the sun never sets?" 

"We can see the moon every once in a while." The Nephilim stops in his tracks, his hand reaching for the knife. "Shhhh." 

The witch doesn't dare to utter a single noise. Then he feels something cold reaching out towards him. As if on cue, they both dart into a full-on run at the exact same moment, the sound of nothing following them. 

"Don't look back!" The Nephilim yells. Then he suddenly pulls Yuuri behind a thick tree trunk, his sword out in a flash. He slashes straight into the air, the place their shadows would have been. 

But he finds nothing. 

Emil curses under his breath. "Yuuri, stand back to back with me." 

Logically, it makes sense. When they stand back to back, they can see three hundred sixty degrees, watching for threats from all angles. But Yuuri can't figure out what they're supposed to be looking out for. Is it the creepy tree vines? Or the shadows? Or the slight sound of rustling? 

"Don't let them kill you, Yuuri," Emil orders, clutching his sword tighter. “I would be very upset.” 

What are they? 

Then Yuuri sees a mass of a tar-like substance in the rough shape of a hunched man. It has no eyes, but the witch knows it is watching him, hungering. It's tall enough to rise over Yuuri's head, perhaps a few inches taller if it wasn't permanently hunched over. "Emil, does it have any weaknesses?" 

"My sword!" Without missing a beat, Emil pulls Yuuri away from the out-stretching arms of the creature, stabbing it quickly in the gut. The creature falls down to the ground with little ceremony, and the Nephilim grabs Yuuri's shoulder, gripping it almost painfully. "We need to run for the lake." 

"What can I do against it?" Yuuri shouts, his mind running over spells and old sigils. Transformative spell? A fire spell? Should he try to make a hexbag out of the few supplies he has in his coat? He feels helpless like a baby, and he absolutely hates completely depending on Emil for his safety. 

"Dodge!" Emil orders, pushing the witch into a tree as they narrowly missed running into another tar creature. He swings wide, the sword beheading the tar head with nary a sound even as it lands on the ground. 

Yuuri is disturbed. He has never seen such a defiance in the laws of sound. Wouldn't a head dropping onto the ground create a sound? 

It necessarily wouldn't. If they are manifestations. If they are not truly real but rather an elaborate illusion. An illusion capable of killing. 

A shiver crawls up the witch's spine. He really doesn't like this place. He wants to go back to earth, find himself in Matsuura with Victor by his side and Makkachin on their lap like an oversized lapdog. 

Emil finishes off the third one and shouts, "We have to go! They're coming after us hot! Come on! Towards the lake!" 

Yuuri runs, desperately trying not to look back even as he feels phantom fingers and hands reaching out to him. He screams back, hating how he feels so helpless, "What can I do?" 

"Pray for a miracle!" 

"But I don't believe in anything!" Yuuri replies, heart quickening in beat as he feels something eerily cold brushing against the back of his head, missing his hair. 

Yuuri doesn't believe in anything? That's not true. He has always believed in his own magic as long as there weren't thirty or more people gawking at him as if he was a performing acrobat in a circus. Mari, unlike Yuuri, easily swept through magical competitions for prize money without letting the audience get to her. Yuuri choked at a junior competition for potion making and never went back since. 

But there's something more to believe in now. He can believe in his family and friends. . . But most of all, he can believe in the love he shares with Victor. 

For so long, he has walked alone as he worked through the underbelly of the supernatural community of criminals on behalf of Interpol. He has occasionally indulged in partners like Phichit and Kenjirou and some of the local law enforcement officers, befriending them. But there's someone who is far closer to him, someone who was able to get through every single wall Yuuri put up.

And in his mind, he thinks hard, praying and calling for help. Because sometimes, there is just a problem too big for one person to handle. 

If there is a god he must believe in, if there is an altar he must put his offerings upon, if there is something he knows is true and pure, then it would be their love. 

_Victor, I need you. Please. Help._

And maybe it's imagination or maybe it's not, but he can feel Victor's voice stretching across time and space, reaching to Yuuri despite the distance. _I got you. Where are you, love?_

_Purgatory._

And he’s running harder than he’s ever ran in his life, panting. Emil is two footfalls ahead of him, his sword raised out in front of him as if he’s charging towards an invisible opponent. 

Yuuri suddenly stops when the dirt shifts into black rocks, the same rocks bordering a lake filled with black water. His eyes blink, and he realizes, with no small amount of horror, that they are standing at the ends of a peninsula. 

“Well. . . This is not good,” Emil says, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “Uh. . . Yuuri. Turn around slowly.” 

The witch does. Upon seeing the seven shadow creatures blocking their path off the peninsula, he mutters, “Can we jump into the lake?”

“Not a good idea. Something with tentacles lives down there.” The Nephilim slashes at the creatures, the sword hitting none of them. 

Out of the corner of his eye, the witch notices a mass of black running across the lake's, as if the water is merely ice. A small part of him is reminded of Jesus, walking on water. “What’s that on the water?” Yuuri inquires. “Emil, what is that?” 

The Nephilim chances a look behind them. “Maybe that is Naomi on the lake. Maybe she had a vision and decided to help,” Emil breathes, panting as he tries to hold his own against such overwhelming odds. The Leviathans, seven of the shadow creatures, don’t seem to care even as he tries to ward them off with his sword. Then he shouts, “Yuuri, behind you!” 

Something slams against Yuuri’s head, and his vision goes black. 

When he comes to, he’s freezing. 

No, he literally is pressed against a block of ice. His face is squished against frozen water, smooth ice. There’s a frozen branch twisting its way out through a small hole, and Yuuri blinks, lost and confused. 

“Yuuri, are you alright?” A hand touches him at his back. His alpha’s voice is panicked, comforting in its tone. “That was a hard fall. The ice is not that smooth over here. It’s unfortunate, because it doesn’t make it easy to skate on. It’s too easy for someone to slip and fall here.” 

“I’m alright.” With gloved hands, Yuuri slowly pushes himself up. He fixes his spectacles, having been skewed from the fall. He sits and finds Victor kneeling before him with ice skates on his feet. “Victor. . .” 

“Yes?” The alpha’s hair falls forward, bangs covering his eyes. “I think your skates may be too loose. Let me fix it for you.” He unlaces Yuuri’s skate and slowly tightens them up, finishing off his correction with a quick knot and a kiss on the very tip of Yuuri’s boot. He narrowly misses the toe pick protruding. 

“Victor!” Yuuri protests, cheeks and ears blushing. 

The alpha blinks innocently at the witch. "What is it, Yuuri? Did I tie your shoelaces too tight?" 

He coughs. "You didn't need to kiss the ice skates! It's. . ." 

"Oh, Yuuri," Victor purrs, eyes sparkling. He captures the witch's lips, sending them both crashing down to the frozen waters of the lake. He pulls back, his hand cupping Yuuri's face. "But how can I ever resist kissing you? Do you deny me of kissing you?" 

"Never," Yuuri replies. His beanie cushions his head as he finds himself in another kiss, keeping himself warm despite the chill of winter. 

Then suddenly, they are falling backwards into a soft bed. It's warmer here with not even a gentle kiss of frost, and Yuuri laughs as the alpha tries to undo the stuck knot of the witch's yukata, his eyebrows wrinkling in concentration. He wonders aloud, "Are you giving up yet?" 

"A knot tied too well will not defeat me," the alpha declares, even as his tongue sticks out in concentration. It's pink, protruding just slightly out of his lips. 

Yuuri finds it ridiculously irresistible. How does this alpha dare to look this cute even as he's fumbling with Yuuri's yukata with all the nimbleness of a horny teenager sneaking into their boyfriend's house while the parents are away. 

Victor growls. "This is unbelievable." 

"I can use magic," Yuuri pipes up. His fingers reach towards the knot, only to be batted away. "Victor! I can use magic." 

The alpha only growls some more, glaring deeply at the knot in his fingers. 

The witch merely raises an eyebrow, his voice deepening in warning. "Victor, I'm not going to be happy if you ruin another yukata." 

"I can buy more." 

Yuuri sinks his head back into the pillow, his eyes rolling back in exasperation as Victor tries to untie the yukata with growing and growing irritation. After two minutes of nonstop fumbling, the witch says, “Victor, I’m going to fall asleep if you insist on getting it off for me.” 

The alpha growls again, hitching up the hem of Yuuri’s yukata. “I’m getting it off for you. But maybe after you fall asleep.” Hiking the fabric around Yuuri’s waist, Victor dives down, silver hair tousled. His hands grasps the witch’s inner thighs, spreading them apart with ease. Then his tongue swipes across Yuuri's entrance, hands squeezing the soft flesh of the witch's thighs. 

Suddenly, Yuuri isn't so tired anymore. 

The witch can't stop the purr rumbling from his throat as he desperately grips the pillows by his head, nails digging into the fabric. "Ah, ah, Victor!" He can't help but moan, arching and hot and aching. He whines when the alpha briefly pulls away. Yuuri's eyes flutter closed under the assault of pleasure. "Victor, don't stop. Please don't stop." 

"I'll take care of you," Victor promises. Then he dives back to Yuuri's hole, eating and sucking as if he's always belonged there. Slick helps facilitate the alpha's tongue as he plunges deep inside Yuuri. His fingers slip in, one after another into the witch's greedy hole. 

"It's not enough, ah!" Yuuri doesn't even know which language he speaks. Then he whines when Victor withdraws again. He gasps in shock as a tongue suddenly licks across Yuuri's face and chin, saliva dripping down on his cheeks. 

What. Victor isn't this messy. 

Yuuri opens his eyes. His heart stops pounding when he notices Makkachin with her tongue lolling out as she casually licks across Yuuri's face again. The witch is thankful his alpha quickly pulled the yukata back down. 

"Makka," Victor says, possibly restraining himself from kicking their new dog out. "What are you doing here?" 

She whimpers, sounding as extra as Victor, as if she has never eaten once in her entire life. Her eyes woefully glance between the witch and the angel. 

"You. . . Makka. . ." Victor can't even finish the sentence. "Alright. But don't bother us when we're busy, Makka." He pushes himself off the bed, waiting for the hellhound to jump off. "I'll get you something to eat. Yuuri, I'll be back soon. Try to stay awake." 

As if Yuuri can fall back asleep, casually wiping Makkachin’s drool off his face with a sleeve. He languishes on the bed as they paddle away, and then he suddenly sits up, once Victor is out of earshot. With a little help of magic and quick, nimble fingers, he manages to get the knot free. He loves Victor’s determination and his stubbornness at times, but this is his favorite yukata. He would prefer not to have permanent wrinkles in the fabric. 

He sends it flying to the basket for dirty clothes, watching it neatly fold itself as it goes. Stark naked, he pulls the sheets over him, his head landing on the pillow. With the paper thin walls, he can listen to Victor bonding with Makkachin. He can't help but smile as the alpha praises her for eating, a waterfall of delighted words drawing from his lips. 

Yuuri has already forgotten her for giving him such a great fright. How could he not? She's so sweet, and she's no murderous hellhound. It's two points in her favor, and even then. . . he doubts he can stop loving Makkachin already. 

They only had this hellhound for three days, but it doesn't take long for the witch to feel as if she's always belonged here. 

Victor returns to the bedroom once Makkachin stops whining. He slides the door closed and says, "I think we haven't been feeding her enough." 

"Hellhounds eat more than normal dogs," Yuuri murmurs, his words muffled by the pillow. "A lot more. My family's pet hellhound eats all the leftovers and small animals. He regularly goes out to hunt for more." 

"Do you feel like she should go out to hunt?" 

The witch has a sudden vision of a poor merchant traveling on the road without any of their goods or their shoes. He shakes his head. "We should buy food for her. Merchants are too easy to pick off for her. She is ruining livelihoods." 

The alpha smiles, kneeling onto the bed. His fingers toy with the ends of Yuuri's blanket. "Alright, we'll buy more food for her." 

"I'll buy more food for her," Yuuri corrects, determined. "I know how much she needs to eat." 

"Then we'll go to the market tomorrow," Victor resolves, flopping onto the bed and over Yuuri's thin blanket. Fingers dance over Yuuri's body and then finds another end of the blanket, teasing. The alpha peeks underneath and gasps dramatically. "Yuuri, you took off the yukata!" 

The witch rolls his eyes. 

"I nearly had it!" 

"I would have gained wrinkles around my eyes and on my legs by the time you've gotten it off," Yuuri retorts, smiling anyway. "So, Victor," he says, purring. "Is Makkachin busy with her meal?" 

"Absolutely," the alpha confirms, nodding. "I gave everything we had, so we have to go shopping soon. But don't worry about it. I'll pick something up after I'm done working for the day." 

Yuuri sits up, the blanket slipping down to his bare stomach. Eyes glancing aside demurely, he murmurs, "When do you have to work?" 

"I think maybe in two hours. Or less—”

The witch captures Victor’s chin with his mouth, shutting him up instantly. Pulling back slowly, he murmurs, “Two hours then. For certain.” His hand confidently reaches down to the knot at Victor’s waist, easily undoing it. He doesn’t know how Victor’s yellow and white yukata ends up on the floor. It just happened. 

“You’re so wet,” Victor mutters, fingers dipping into Yuuri’s hole. 

Yuuri buries his nose, inhaling his alpha's scent and thumbing his prominent bite mark. Legs gripping around Victor's hips, the witch lifts himself slightly, fingers reaching down to help the alpha angle his length at Yuuri's entrance. He moans as the tip presses in, warm and thick, filling him perfectly so. "Ah, Victor," he pants. 

The alpha nuzzles against Yuuri's scent gland, his pheromones dripping with lust. "Go at your own pace." 

Yuuri's hands slips up, squeezing his alpha's biceps until he finds purchase at his shoulder. He bites his lips, suppressing a moan as Victor bottoms out, stretching him unbelievably wide. His mouth finds Victor's ear, and he can't help himself as he whispers in desperation and aching need, "Come on, Victor. When are you going to get me pregnant?" 

It's like a switch has been flipped in Victor's very demeanor, his hands rougher on Yuuri's butt cheeks and rolling the flesh between his fingers. "No worries," he rasps, his mouth diving to nibble alongside the witch's scent gland. "I'm not leaving you here empty tonight." 

"Promise?" Yuuri manages to tease, his nails raking up Victor's back at a particular hard thrust to a sensitive spot inside him. "Oh, Victor!" 

Victor doesn't even hesitate as he reaches up to softly pinch at the other man's nipple. 

His eyes roll back at waves of mounting pressure as he bounces in the alpha's lap, holding onto Victor so tightly as if he'll never let him go. With tears unbiddenly filling his eyes, he whispers, "I love you." 

Then the scene changes. 

Yuuri stands in the corner as he observes Phichit and Mari with their heads stoop to read Emil's notebook, the same notebook he passed to the other before they went into Purgatory. It looks like Hasetsu. In their very dining hall with its television, but unlike before, there are no guests drinking sake and drunkenly screaming at the television. 

"I don't understand the sigils very well, but Emil left brief descriptions of what they do. Not great descriptions. I discovered the hard way that the barrier sigil requires something personal to be burnt. Something cherished. Thankfully, it's not a living being." 

"You don't mind if I ask what it is?" Mari sticks a cigarette into her mouth, not lighting it up. 

"My cell phone. But it doesn't really matter anymore. All the cell phone towers have been destroyed, and it's lucky the satellites are still working." 

The witch takes the cigarette out of her mouth. "They can't use the defunct power grids. I think they're drawing power from sunlight, right?" 

"Yeah, but the only people we are connecting to are doomsday preppers who are in the middle of nowhere. No one important or powerful enough to take on the devil," Phichit says, flipping the book. He shifts the weight on his legs. 

"I can get a chair if you want." 

"It's okay!" The Thai witch waves her off. "I'm not used to kneeling all the time. How is Yurio doing?" 

"He's spending a lot of time with Yuuko, and he seems to be calming down a bit," Mari answers. Then she frowns as she hears a knock at the front door. "Phichit, you have the wards set up correctly today, right?" 

"I never skimp out on wards," he replies, sounding deeply offended. Arthur, popping out of the witch's collar, makes some squabbling noises, as if agreeing with Phichit. He shoves the notebook back into his pocket. 

"I don't like this. Vicchan disappeared yesterday. He never misses a meal. He would never miss dinner," Mari mutters, a whisper that can be barely heard by the other witch. "Isn't one of the first things a serial killer does is to kill the dog?" 

"You're not helping." 

They slowly sneak closer to the door and the slow knocks, tiptoeing. Yuuri slowly floats behind them, his heart skipping beats as he wants to scream at them to not open, to not let the other person in. 

It could be anyone on the other side. 

Mari sets her hand on the doorknob. Then she turns it, the door seamlessly unlocking itself with magic. The door swings open, revealing a casually-dressed alpha in a grey tracksuit and expensive running shoes. 

"Hi," he says in Japanese, not missing a blink. 

Yuuri's sister grimaces, shutting the door in his face. She lets out a sigh. "Not him again." 

"Don't you know Victor?" Phichit asks, confused as he glances between Mari and the door. "I mean, didn't Yuuri mention him over the phone or over texts?" 

"He is that Victor?" Mari questions, wrinkling her nose. "He's the same Victor who Yuuri is bonded to?" 

"I don't know the other Victor you know. . ." Phichit swallows. "Well, if you don't want to let him in, you don't have to let him. It's your home." 

She sighs, her shoulders slumping. "It's irrational. Or maybe not. But I saw him many times in a dream. Sometimes, we're all happy. Yuuri, Victor, our parents. But I sometimes wonder why I kept turning him into trees and then into small animals." 

"It's. . ." Phichit pauses, perhaps stopping himself from mentioning reincarnation. "Mari, it's your choice." 

"He's my brother's mate. He's almost like family, even if I've never officially met him," Mari says, though mostly to herself. The witch opens the door, the locks unlocking for her at the touch of the doorknob. 

Victor is still standing there, easily towering over the two of them. "Do you mind if I come in?" He inquires. 

Mari shrugs. 

The alpha walks in, pulling off his shoes. 

The witch makes sure the door is locked tight. She's visibly confused when Victor knows the exact twists and turns to end up in the kitchen, as if he has lived here before. It's surreal. "What are you looking for?" 

"Your salt," the alpha answers, not even batting an eye at the strange looks they're both giving him. "What? I need to draw a sigil out of salt, and Hasetsu, for now, is underneath Lucifer's notice. You have changed where the salt was placed." 

"It's in the pantry," Mari answers. "Because. . ." She coughs forcibly, shoving her cigarette into her pocket. "Nevermind. Just tell us why you need to salt, Victor." 

Victor wanders over to the small pantry, easily finding the salt canister. "Phichit, did you tell her where Yuuri is?"

"I know where he is." 

"The salt will help me anchor myself to a certain location on this plane of existence," Victor patiently explains. "If I was going alone, I wouldn't do this, but because I'm bringing Yuuri back, I will need an anchor. Or else I may accidentally reappear in a volcano. I will be fine. Yuuri won't." 

"Yuuri can come back?" Phichit pauses. He grabs Arthur, who is swaying as he twitches his fingers threateningly at Victor. "Shh, calm down, Arthur." 

The alpha turns, his silver bangs falling over his eyes. Leaning towards the hamster, he whispers, "I promise I will get him back. It's nothing you have to worry about, Arthur." A pause, and the alpha lifts his eyes to Mari. "I want to let you know that Vicchan is fine." 

"Vicchan? You know where Vicchan is? Is he okay? And why did he skip dinner last night?" 

"I fed him," Victor explains. He winces and mutters, "I really hate the modifications I made." In a louder voice, he continues, "But I sent him to the place where Yuuri is at. Along with some additional help." 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Phichit raises his palm at the other alpha, making the universal stop sign. "Okay. Timeout here. First of all, what is this place Yuuri is at? Second of all, where is Emil?" 

Victor glances around, briefly examining their feet. "I think we should sit down for this." 

They do, moving themselves to the small private dining room. 

"So spill," Phichit says. "Or I will sic my hamsters on you." 

"Purgatory is another world. Another dimension, we can more accurately say. Laws are far different in there compared to the ones in this world. The sun never sets in Purgatory, and the original inhabitants will never die. Nephilims, which are children of angels and humans, make up the greatest percentage of Purgatory's. . . Immigrants. There are some witches, vampires. . . Souls too great and dangerous that they had to be placed there." 

"But how did Yuuri get in there?" 

"Lucifer opened a doorway into Purgatory and threw them into there," Victor answers, a finger at his chin. "There is an exit, but it's the only way out. The thing about Purgatory is that. . . There are many ways in, like how Rita Carroll the witch who experimented with portal magic found herself in Purgatory. They could be any distance away from the exit." 

"Rita Carroll," Mari mutters. "She was the wife of Eliza Carroll, who eventually discovered how to create international portals. But everyone thought Eliza killed her." 

"She was nearly arrested for it, too." 

"No, only an experiment gone wrong," Victor says, putting down his finger and tapping the dining table with the canister of salt next to him. 

Yuuri's sister returns to another topic. "But what about Vicchan? Why did you send him in there? Into a place filled with monsters and those. . . Half-angels?" 

"Angels and to a lesser extent, archangels are severely affected by Purgatory. The inhabitants of Purgatory are anti-celestial in nature. Vicchan, who has excellent senses and can't be fooled by the inhabitants' tricks, can find him far faster than I can." 

"Why didn't you go in after Yuuri? With Vicchan? Or by yourself without involving the hellhound?" The witch interrogates, leaning forward from across the table. 

Death smiles, his hand curling around the metal canister for salt. He raises it slightly. "I'm here to make sure Yuuri survives the jump back to earth." 

Then the scene changes. 

Yuuri blinks, his eyes adjusting to the dim light glowing overhead. The lightbulb swings and swings and swings, seemingly following the wind’s back. He glances back down, noticing a dark figure sitting in an armchair. A large familiar sword rests on a little square table along with a tall bottle of vodka. 

“Yuuri Katsuki,” the other man says, his voice deep. His words are grating in its quality. Dennis Haysbert can’t compete with this man’s voice in depth. 

He blinks several times. 

War is dressed as an African American man, fully decorated with prestigious-looking medals on his breast and a general’s uniform signifying him as belonging to the United States Army. He has the same figure as an American footballer, big to rival linebackers and make them all run for their mothers. He slowly drinks from his glass, making Yuuri wonder if he is possibly suffering from alcoholism. The witch has never seen him without a glass of alcohol these days. 

“What do you want?” Yuuri manages out. 

War laughs. “I have sent you so many messages, and you still have the audacity to ask me what I want.” He downs his glass, setting it on the table. With a hard point of his index finger, he reminds the witch, “I await you.” 

“But where are you?” 

“Hasetsu. Your family’s home. I’m in the storage room, and it’s kind of dusty cramped in here.” A pause. “When you get out of Purgatory, we need to talk one more time. In person. So you better get out soon.”

* * *

He comes around with Emil’s voice whispering in the background. 

Not whispering. Apologizing. 

Emil says, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know that your hellhound was friendly. I’m really sorry I tried to kill. . .” A pause. “Is it a him or a her?”

There’s a murmur of an answer. 

“As I said before. I’m really sorry that I tried to kill him. It’s just that I have never seen a friendly hellhound before. Most of the hellhounds. . . Well, I work for the FBI.” He pauses again in thought. “I used to work for the FBI. Kind of hard to work for the FBI when you’re in Purgatory.” He nervously laughs, chuckling. “Most of the hellhounds I’ve seen kill humans in a pack and rip them apart. And now I’m just blurting out things and I can’t stop talking. I’m so sorry.” 

The other voice laughs, a musical sound. Feminine. “It’s alright. No harm, no foul. Isn’t that the saying Americans use?” 

“Yes, that is what they use,” Emil confirms. “I thought you may have been Naomi when I saw you and your hellhound running across the lake. Naomi is the most powerful witch in Purgatory, but you can give her a run for her money. In all the thousands of years I’ve spent in Purgatory, I’ve never seen anything like that. You were amazing! Like wow!” Excited, the Nephilim praises, “Your hellhound just ate the Leviathans like they were dog food! And you! You burned them all down? Frozen them? Fire-froze? What kind of spell is that? I’ve never known that they had a weakness for that kind of spell. Naomi spent years trying to figure out how she can kill them, but they stayed away from her and Ruth told her to stop poking at them for experimentation.” 

Yuuri groans, his head rolling in something soft. A pillow. A hand reaches up to his head, finding it covered in bandages. 

“Yuuri, don’t move,” Emil orders, quickly slipping back to a stern voice. “The head wound is pretty bad, but if it wasn’t for this witch here, it would have been far worse. You might have almost died from your head injuries." 

Yuuri can't even manage some words. 

"Here, drink." A pause as he helps Yuuri to several gulps of water. "You should have told me you kept an entire pantry of water bottles in your coat. I had to find out what your coat does from this witch here." 

The witch feebly pushes away the plastic water bottle, his eyes glued shut. Or not. It feels like there's gauze bandages wrapped part of his eyes, preventing him from seeing much of anything. 

"Hey, don't touch that. You're still healing. You're healing fast with magic, but. . ." Emil addresses the other person. "You said you need bandages on, right?" 

"It helps concentrate the magic," the other witch softly explains, their words barely audible. It sounds so familiar, tickling at Yuuri's brain. 

Silence. 

Then Emil says, "I'm really sorry. I should have asked you this question earlier. What is your name?" 

The woman replies, "I'm Hiroko." 

This, this, this has Yuuri desperately pushing up the gauze covering his eyes. It draws a sound of protest from Emil, but Yuuri doesn't care, not when he is drinking in the sight of a witch dressed in a white yukata, the same yukata she wore at her funeral so long ago. He breathes out, not daring to believe his own eyes or even his nose as it picks up faint notes of her scent. "Okaasan?" 

He doesn’t know if this is a dream, an incredibly cruel dream. 

Standing right beside the Nephilim, so real and life-like, the short plump Japanese woman smiles, looking down at Yuuri lying supine on the dirt floor. She kneels down, a hand so softly touching Yuuri's forehead, warm as if she's alive. Not anything like a ghost. And behind her is Vicchan, standing tall in his true form of a hellhound and eagerly abusing a tree trunk to sharpen his jagged teeth. 

"You two know each other?" Emil asks in confusion. He glances back and forth between the two of them, as if finally taking notice of their similar features. 

"Yes," Hiroko says, smiling. "Yuuri is my son."


	6. Leviathan III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undisclosed Desires by Muse

It takes about half an hour or so for Yuuri's head injury to mend well enough for his mother to deem it acceptable for him to move. The witch is slowly pulled up, sitting as he waits for the world to focus. Blood rushes from his head; the injury must have been more severe than Yuuri realized. 

"How did you even get into Purgatory?" Emil asks, after finishing a recap of a small skirmish Yuuri didn't even see. "Did you open up a portal?" 

"It's," Hiroko says, one hand patting Yuuri's shoulder while the other strips off the bandages, "because of my son-in-law, Victor. I died a while ago on earth, and he managed to snap me out of my death trance with the help of Vicchan. Vicchan shadow traveled into Purgatory." 

"I didn't realize hellhounds can get into Purgatory," the Nephilim replies, 

"I've never been here before," Yuuri's mother admits. She helps Yuuri with more water. "It's dreary in Purgatory." 

"It's like London," the Nephilim remarks. "Jolly old London, depressing and grey." 

"It's more grey than London," the witch croaks out. He can't help but drink in the very vision of his mother, and he can't stop but inhale in her scent, comforting and soothing in all the ways he has forgotten. 

"You feeling better?" Hiroko asks. 

The witch nods, a hard lump forming in his throat. He can't. . . He doesn't even know what to say. 

"Vicchan can carry all of us," Hiroko says, glancing at Emil. "We can escort Yuuri to the exit without us wasting too much time in Purgatory. There is a large influx of souls leaving earth, and Yuuri must return." 

The Nephilim critically eyes the hellhound and then at both of them. "Is Yuuri's head alright now? Would it be bothered by the jostling?" 

"Vicchan is not like a horse," Hiroko says with no small amount of amusement. She smiles. "He is a hellhound, and he can go as slow or fast as he would like." 

So it's settled. Yuuri slowly climbs on top of Vicchan's back while he wraps his arms around his mother, his eyes watering from her very scent. He glances down at the ground, at the dirt to hide the hint of tears away. He wants to thank whoever is out there that he isn't sniffling and sobbing. 

Then Emil climbs on Vicchan's back, holding onto Yuuri. There's not much of a natural saddle formed by Vicchan's spine and bones, but he has a slight dip on his back that allows for somewhat comfortable seating. 

Vicchan starts off with walking, listening to Emil's direction as they head towards the exit. The hellhound pushes towards the lake, to where the branches aren't low enough to be a nuisance to the hellhound's riders. 

Vicchan daintily hops over corpses and bushes alike, unbothered by the sight of death. He jumps over a waterfall, clearing a murky grey river with ease. The jagged rocks glimmer, sharp with water glittering at them. 

Throughout it all, Emil whoops in happiness, shouting more directions at the hellhound. "Turn left! Left! Pass the corpse! Good job! Over the river again!" 

The witch believes he may turn deaf from all the screaming, but he doesn't mind. His mild migraine is going to kill him first, but he finds the warmth and the faint scent of his mother to be comforting. After this, he will ask. And maybe. . . Maybe she can come back to earth with him, leaving Purgatory. Alive and well. 

"Whoa!" 

"He's not a horse!" But Hiroko laughs anyway as Vicchan slows down to a complete stop in front of a wall of unusually bright green hedge, completely uniformed in shape and size as if regularly cared for by gardeners. 

"That's it," Emil breathes, sliding down from the hellhound's back. "That's the exit." 

"There's no portal," Yuuri notes, baffled as he jumps to the ground, holding Vicchan for balance. "It's a wall. Like a hedge maze. But there is no opening." 

"It's cause only you can go through," Emil concludes, approaching slightly. 

The hedge inches back, as if afraid of the Nephilim. 

"Do you see that?" Emil walks backwards, avoiding Vicchan as he moves away from the hedge. "It's coming towards me now that I am walking away." 

"Yuuri, go!" The tone of desperation in his mother's voice sends chills down the witch's spine. 

Turning his head, Yuuri gasps at the row of Leviathans grinning ten meters away. He shoves down his fear, swallowing. His heels dig into the ground. "I'm not leaving here without you." 

"Yuuri, go!" 

"Not while they're here!" Yuuri raises his hands, sparks flying around his fists. "I'm not leaving you here!" His eyes catch as Leviathan after Leviathan melds from the shadows and the trees. 

There's so many. 

Too many. 

Emil summons out his sword with a click. He glances briefly at Hiroko and asks, "Can you do that trick again?" 

"Close your eyes," orders a voice behind them, steely and calm. 

And Yuuri quickly does, recognizing that voice. He shuts his eyes as tightly as he could, but even then, he can't avoid seeing the bright flash of light through his eyelids and he can't avoid hearing an angel's battle cry. 

** I AM THE NAMELESS, MALAKH HA-MAWETH, THE ANGEL OF DEATH, THE WATCHER. I AM THE END OF EVERYTHING. CEASE. **

When the light dims, Yuuri can't help but turn back, his hands quickly finding and grasping his alpha's as he pulls the witch into a hug that is so warm and comfortable that Yuuri would never want to leave. Home is here, even while they're so far away from Matsuura and Hasetsu. 

The witch slowly opens his eyes. 

Victor stands before him, dressed in an impeccable black suit with equally expensive leather shoes. There's no sign of his scythe. It's utterly ridiculous and attractive that Yuuri can't help smile, as if they're in their own little world. 

"Did you dress to impress the monsters living in Purgatory?" Yuuri can't help but ask. 

"It's not that hard. They don't even wear clothes," his alpha remarks, reaching up to brush the witch's cheek. "You have some dirt here." 

"Hey, Mr. Nikiforov!" Emil shouts, kicking at the ashy remains of the Leviathans. He waves at the alpha. "I appreciate you coming here to this hellhole, but are you picking Yuuri up from this rotten place?" 

Finally letting go of the witch, Victor turns his head. Confusion hits him, his head tilting as he squints. “Agent Emil Nekola, isn’t it?”

“Yes!” 

“A Nephilim,” Death adds, increasingly puzzled. Victor stares at him for a long time, as if examining a curious specimen he hasn’t seen before. He shakes it off, and then he turns to Yuuri’s mother with a smile. “Hiroko, thank you for coming.” 

“You don’t even need to ask,” Hiroko says, approaching them both. She pats Victor’s arm, fingers briefly brushing Victor's cheek, and then she nods. “Go, Vicchan, take him away from here.” She steps away, moving away from the hedge and Purgatory’s exit.

“Okaasan. . .” Yuuri’s voice trails off. He raises an eyebrow at his alpha, pleading. “Can’t she come?” 

“Oh, Yuuri.” Hiroko sighs, shaking her head. Her arms easily wrap themselves around the witch, and she pulls away, thumbing at Yuuri’s cheek. “I’m not alive, Yuuri. It feels that way, because this plane is one of the three afterlifes. I can’t go with you through that exit and neither can Emil.”

“And Vicchan?” Yuuri asks, choking on his words. 

“Vicchan can shadow travel his way back,” his mother answers. “He will keep me company until he’s ready to return.” 

Yuuri reaches out, tears flowing unbidden as he shuts his eyes. He can’t imagine that he’s letting go of his mother once again, that he has to leave her behind once more. He squeezes her tight, breathing in her soothing scent resembling cherry blossoms. “I’m sorry, Okaasan. That I didn’t. . . That I wasn’t there enough.” He slowly pulls away, sniffling. 

Hiroko, short even in Purgatory, stands on her tiptoes to wipe away the witch’s tears. “Don’t cry, Yuuri. I’ll see you again one day.” Then she plants a kiss on her son’s cheek. She whispers fiercely, “Now do you have to do, Yuuri. Go save the world.” 

With his own hand in Victor’s hand, Yuuri can’t help but look back even as the hedge parts to reveal an opening in a maze, watching Emil, Vicchan in his hellhound form, and his mother wave goodbye. Together, Victor and Yuuri step forward, crossing the entrance. Then the opening closes behind them, separating Yuuri from his mother. He can still feel the burn of his mother’s kiss, lingering with magic. 

The bushes rustle, moving of their own accord. The hedge in front of them parts, revealing a lush garden with the most potent scent of roses Yuuri has ever smelled. Yuuri can't help but inhale. Unlike flower perfumes in department stores, the roses here are perfectly fragranced without tempting a sneeze. 

"What is this place?" Yuuri wonders aloud, his jaw dropping at the beautiful arrangement of vines crawling up trees and the delicate array of flowers in a diverse collection of colors. Red, white, pink, blue, orange, gold, indigo. . . On and on. He walks along a stone path, wondering if this is part of Purgatory. 

Victor answers, "The Garden of Eden. Or what remains of Paradise." 

"It's so beautiful." And Yuuri can't help but take in everything. It's prettier than Japan in the spring with the dance of cherry blossoms. Then a small feeling of panic hits him, and he turns to his alpha, stopping in his tracks. "Victor, where is earth? Matsuura?" 

The alpha squeezes his hand, reassuring. "Don't worry. I will show you the door." 

The witch tries not to feel too hard, to not give away the idea of Victor hiding him away in this perfect place and letting him stay in the Garden of Eden until the Apocalypse blows over.

Of course, if that was a possibility, then why would Selaphiel choose earth over the Garden of Eden? Maybe he can't be kept here forever or to the very end of time. 

"Yuuri, relax. It's okay," Victor says, pausing in his step. "A few more meters, and I'll explain the portal leading out of Purgatory." 

"We're in Purgatory?" 

"Yes and no. As I said before, we are in the Garden of Eden that has merged with Purgatory. This place. . . It is like an antechamber to the other planes of existence. Purgatory can lead to Hell, Heaven, or earth." 

"It seems it is far easier to get into Purgatory than it is to get out," Yuuri notices. 

"Yes, it is that way." Victor slows, pointing at a modern-looking white door with nothing else planted in the ground. It somehow stands, unaffected by gravity. "That is the door. But every four hours, its destination changes. Right now, it is slated to Hell." 

"How can you tell?" Yuuri doesn't dare move too close to examine the door closely. He has gone through Purgatory, and he doesn't feel a great need to venture through another realm. 

"I can feel it," Victor answers, shrugging. "All the planes of existence have a different atmosphere to me." 

"Does Heaven or Hell need a waiting room?" The witch asks. 

"No. I think perhaps the Creator felt there needed to be a line of defense between Purgatory and the rest of the universe." A pause. "That is one theory. Another is because the Garden of Eden was collapsing and detaching from earth due to the fall of mankind and latched onto Purgatory to survive." 

"Oh." Yuuri blinks at that. It's clear it has happened a long time ago. Ancient history. “How many hours are left until the door’s destination changes to earth?”

Victor, possessing none of Yuuri's misgivings about the door, strolls over and knocks. His ear presses against the surface, and he answers, "Three hours." 

The witch taps his chin, nodding at that. Three hours. He turns and pauses at a scrub two meters away. Rosemary. His breath picks up, and he asks, "Is it okay to collect plants from here? Is it safe?" 

The alpha nods. "It's not anything like the legend of the Greek Underworld. Pick, eat. . . It's safe." 

So Yuuri does, gathering some rare ingredients from the Garden of Eden. He's somewhat curious if plants pulled from the Garden of Eden would be more potent, like how flowers such as jasmine smell much stronger than back on earth. It's not really an experiment he can run, though he is interested in potential findings. He picks a few poisonous flowers that are expensive back in Spain and pushes past a few large bushes, peeking around. 

The Garden of Eden seems endless, rows upon rows of green and life. But there is one detail that Yuuri finds rather peculiar. 

"Are there not any birds?" 

"Or animals," Victor confirms, reaching down in his fancy suit to help Yuuri pluck a few petals off of poison ivy. He, unlike Yuuri, has gloves. He clutches them all and waits for Yuuri to hold out a plastic baggie, which ends up shoved into his magical coat. Then Victor's leather gloves are stripped off and placed into his inner pocket of the suit. 

"But all the plants remain," Yuuri muses. He finds it mildly odd, but he doesn't question it. Maybe all the animals got kicked out of the Garden of Eden when man fell. 

Then Yuuri looks left, surprised to find a pond of glittering clear water decked with lily pads at the edges. It's placid, and when the witch walks close to peer down into the water, he finds smooth round rocks below. The pond doesn't appear very deep but rather inviting. Yuuri suddenly feels a buildup of sweat and grime at his neck. 

"Victor?" 

"Yes?" 

"How much time do we have left?" 

"Two and a half hours approximately," he answers, tilting his head. "Why?" 

Then Yuuri begins to unbutton his coat, pulling it off his arms. He yanks off his shoes and tries not to sniff too closely at his black socks. He knows he reeks. His socks have been gathering sweat for hours at the very least. Maybe days. It's difficult to tell when time doesn't visibly move, when the sun's position never changes. He strips off his collared shirt with little ceremony and unbuckles his belt. His sensibilities and habits forces him to leave all of his clothes in a neat pile on the grass. 

"You're bathing?" 

"Have to wash off the dust," the witch explains, rubbing the dirt off his hands. He holds up his fingers, wriggling. "Look at all the black stuff under my nails." He resumes stripping, kicking off his pants and socks in one go. Then he pauses at his boxers, eyes lifting to Victor who has remained unmoved and standing a meter away from Yuuri. “Join me!” he breathes in a rush, the words drawing out before embarrassment can hit him. 

Embarrassment, or maybe the warm water of the pond, hits him anyway. 

His heart stops beating the very second Victor's pale fingers reach up to undo his black tie. His suit jacket is laid out on the grass, and then he is unbuttoning his white collared shirt. His feet slips out of his leather shoes, and there, Yuuri loses track of what Victor is even doing with his pants, because he is enraptured by all the sculpted muscles in the alpha's back. 

He regains some of his wits when he finally notes Victor's bikini bottoms slipping off the alpha's pale legs. Then he's suddenly gripping Victor's arms as the other man climbs into the pond. 

The pond is barely five feet deep, and Yuuri can't help but grin at Victor, all thoughts and worries washed away like the layer of grime on his skin. His eyelid flutters as he whispers, "Wash my hair? I have some twigs stuck." 

"Turn around," the alpha hoarsely replies. 

And Yuuri does, his back pressed against Victor. He gasps as water suddenly runs over his hair, and he sighs as soon as Victor's hands runs through the dirty matted strands. There might be blood in his hair as well due to the head injury. Yuuri doesn't want to know. 

But he can feel himself fall apart, the very pieces of himself artfully caught by Victor who mends him with his gentle, caring touch. Victor's hands, the strong capable hands of a surgeon, runs water over Yuuri's neck. Yuuri can't help but close his eyes, reveling in the comfort his alpha provides. 

Then Victor presses his lips on the witch's shoulder, innocently so. The very touch of his kiss feels almost as gentle as the brush of a goose feather. Then he goes a bit higher, kissing the arch of Yuuri's neck, his intentions quite clear. 

"Victor?" 

"Mmm?" 

"How much time do we have?" Then he gasps again, for Victor has captured his nipple, teasing it into a hard nub. 

"Maybe two hours." 

Yuuri quickly catches Victor's roaming hand, the one about to caress his hip underwater. Turning around slowly, he lifts his bare arms until they're looped around his alpha's neck. He says, his words nearly a fine whisper, "Two hours. For certain." Then he captures Victor's lips in a searing kiss, his legs wrapping around the alpha's waist. 

Victor pulls back, his head nodding in agreement. "Two hours. What will we ever do with those two hours?" He inquires in mock wonder. 

Yuuri's lips find his alpha's ear. In a murmur, he says, "You know. . . I don't think we've ever had sex in a forest." It's true. Yuuri can recall all those instances where they had sex outside. All those beach days with sand in all the wrong places. But this isn't the beach. 

"No." 

The witch's smile is positively wicked. "Resolve that, will you, Vitenka?" 

Victor whisks them a few meters away from their clothes to a bed of reeds. It's shallow over here, perhaps only two feet in depth, and the alpha is pressing into Yuuri's entrance with a finger, finding it slicked. 

Yuuri rests his back against the reeds. They've been growing around a few rocks and cushion Yuuri's back. His legs wrap around Victor, and he leaves open-mouth kisses on the alpha's shoulder as he gently slips towards the bite mark. Yes, that doesn't look fresh, doesn't look renewed. He must rectify that. Soon. 

He nibbles around the scent gland and sweetly muses, "Vitenka, I need more, ah. . ." 

"Up on the rocks," Victor says, his voice hoarse. 

And Yuuri turns and finds a decently flat patch of rock where he can rest his stomach on. Water drips off his back, and he's suddenly chilled, the heat of Victor's presence scorching without the alpha even touching. He clutches the reeds in desperation when Victor's hands part his legs and his mouth swipes across Yuuri's entrance. Yuuri moans, unable to hold back the noises in his throat. 

After all, this is the Garden of Eden. There's no one else here. 

Victor spreads the witch's butt cheeks wider, his mouth sucking briefly at the hole as Yuuri, hips shaking at waves of coursing pleasure, frantically pulls the reeds. Water drips off of him as Victor rises from the pond, a hot tip brushing against the soft curves of Yuuri's bottom. 

Yuuri's mouth opens, and he claws at the rocks, nails scraping against the hard surface. He nearly wants to weep as it sinks in, bare. Skin against skin at last, Yuuri feeling the length pulse inside him. 

Plunging in, Victor grasps the witch's hips and thrusts. Torso bowing, he presses against Yuuri, his fingers digging into Yuuri's flesh, so hot and desperate as if he will never want to let Yuuri go. And if he had to, well, the marks he leaves behind ensures Yuuri won't be forgetting him anytime soon. 

"Ah, Victor, harder," Yuuri babbles, a line of Japanese rolling from his tongue.  _ Fill me, fill me, Victor  _ barely gets caught by his lips. In lieu of that, he tugs at the reeds, pulling them out, root and stem and all. 

But Victor does, as if he has heard Yuuri's very thought, his thrusts growing shallower as his knot expands in size. It's shoved inside Yuuri's entrance, and the witch can't help but scream in aching release, his very arms shaking with exhilaration. 

He's positively boneless as his alpha maneuvers them back into the pond, temporarily tied together by Victor's knot. With his back pressed against Victor's torso, he arches his neck, allowing his alpha access to his scent gland. His stomach warms, and Yuuri can't help but relax as Victor scents him, the pheromones dripping with possessiveness. 

The water is warm, perfectly so, and after minutes of mindless haze and cuddling, Yuuri whines when Victor pulls himself out of Yuuri and helps both of them out of the pond. Water drips to the grass. 

"Yuuri, you think you can summon some towels?" Victor asks, his breath hot against the witch's ears. 

Yuuri, blinking, nearly says that he can cast a drying spell. Instead, he answers, "It's somewhere in my coat. There's a few." 

"Summon them?" 

And Yuuri does, the towels flying from the inner pockets. They're the same ones he stole from Yutopia, the very same one he kept on promising to himself that he will put back. There's only three, and Victor takes one to wrap himself around the waist before attending to Yuuri. 

_ What a good alpha,  _ Yuuri can't help but think. He should be a little more proactive, but he can't help but want every touch and cherish every little thought of concern passing across Victor's face. Yuuri's mouth parts in a silent moan every time Victor apologetically kisses a mark he left behind. 

_ This is my alpha. Mine.  _

He even lets Victor help him put his clothes back on, his cheeks warming yet he does not protest at all. Every touch feels increasingly intimate, and Yuuri can't stop himself from reaching to his alpha in return to help him button up his shirt. 

"You didn't have to," Victor says. 

"But I want to," the witch replies, a slight smile spreading across his face. It's far too soon when Yuuri has his hands on Victor's tie and is helping him knot it. 

Then they walk back to the door, the strange exit that will take them away from this wonderful, beautiful place that was once Paradise. 

"We have a few more minutes," his alpha says, knocking against the door. "We have to wait." 

"You heard me?" Yuuri asks. He quickly clarifies, "I mean, you heard when I prayed for you?" 

"Yes," Victor confirms, nodding. A hand touches Yuuri's face, cupping his chin, as if in disbelief. As if not believing Yuuri is right there in front of him. "I felt you leave earth, and I couldn't feel you through the bond. I thought Lucifer deposited you in Hell, so I had to search through all nine circles." 

"Then you heard me." 

"I was sneaking around the sixth circle with three more to go when I did. I was surprised he sent you into Purgatory." 

A pause. Then Yuuri says, "It was probably because of Agent Nekola. Agent Nekola fought Lucifer and then left a scratch on him. Agent Nekola is Lucifer's son." 

"That does sound like something he would do. Short of killing his own son. I'm surprised he didn't," Victor muses. 

"Victor. . ." 

"Yes?" 

"What is going on in the world? After I left?" Yuuri wants to ask about Yuri Plisetsky's wellbeing, but it's not like Victor would actually know. Lucifer wouldn't kill Yuri Plisetsky. He only wants to possess him. 

"I'm not sure. I was in Hell before I briefly came back to earth. All I know is that I have a backlog of souls I need to work on as soon as I am back on earth. I will drop you off in Hasetsu before heading to work," he says, turning back to the door. He softly notes, "It is not ready yet." 

"Victor. . . What about my mother? And Vicchan? Are they going to be stuck in Purgatory forever?" 

"Vicchan knows a way out, and he should be able to get Okaasan out as well. If he doesn't, I will come after them myself." A pause as he passes a reassuring smile to Yuuri. "I still need to scold him for eating one half of my leather shoes before he went into Purgatory." 

The witch snorts. "It's his snack." 

Victor gasps, mock offense leading him to fan his face with his own hand. "How dare you say that. My shoes are not a snack!" 

"And so isn't mine!" Yuuri shoots back, glaring. Flashes of memories and outrage courses through his mind. "You fed Makkachin those red shoes we got from the market! They were perfectly usable!" 

"They were not. They were hideous. They didn't compliment your feet at all," Victor declares, gritting his teeth. "Even Makkachin didn't want to eat them!" 

Yuuri shakes his head. He exclaims, "They still worked! I could have gardened in them! Pull a few weeds or maybe trim a few trees!" 

Victor's face makes an expression of disgust. "I can get you gardening boots. Nice, heavy duty gardening boots." 

"Victor. . ." Yuuri narrows his eyes. He stubbornly demands, "No, I want you to find the same exact pair of shoes I had before." 

"Yuuri," Victor whines dramatically, as if the witch has made a fatal wound in his heart, as if Yuuri has purposely stepped on Makkachin's tail. "How dare you ask me of these things." 

"How dare you set fire to my shoes," the witch retorts. 

Victor mutters something under his breath, his gaze turning back to the door. Then he stiffens, azure eyes flicking to Yuuri once again. In a softer voice, he inquires, using only two words, "You remember?" 

"I do," Yuuri confirms, watching surprise run across his alpha's face. "I do remember those shoes. I remember the time where we had to figure out exactly how much Makkachin actually eats. I do remember the discourse about the blue tie. . ." 

"In my defense, it was an ugly tie," Victor interjects. 

"It was my tie that I had for seven years," Yuuri protests. "It was a great tie. It didn't scratch at my neck, and it was easy to wash." 

"Uh-huh." Victor raises a fascinated eyebrow. 

Yuuri lets out a soft breath. "The point is. . . I remember. I don't know why I remember. Maybe it's because of Purgatory. But I'm glad I do. . . And. . ." He pauses. "It's nice to understand the inside jokes we had. The memories are nice. Having access to the memories is nice, but. . ." 

He lifts his eyes to Victor, trying to find the exact words to describe the thoughts flying across his head. And then he finds them, saying: 

"I’m grateful for these memories, for the chance to see into the past. I'm glad for all the time we've spent together, Victor. And if the world is willing, I would be happy to spend more time with you, Victor. With or without the memories."  _ Because, in the end, I will always choose you. And I hope there will be another life where I can learn to love you again,  _ he thinks, hoping Victor can hear it across the bond. 

And maybe the alpha actually does, pulling Yuuri into a kiss even as the door changes to a splendid color of earth brown, swinging open to reveal a tall wave crashing on sand. But even Yuuri can't mistake the look of contemplation on Victor's face for something else as he pulls away. 

When they walk through the open door together, Yuuri can’t help but wonder what comes next.

* * *

Without Victor, the walk to Yutopia from the beach seems longer. Victor has left to ferry souls to their afterlife. In the meanwhile, the witch tries to ignore the sand sneaking their way inside his shoes. It's the sound of Makkachin barking that has him pausing. 

"Makka!" Yuuri shouts, laughing. He can't help but pick up his pace, the poodle following obediently at his heels. At the gates marking Yutopia, he pulls the door open and stops for a brief moment, pausing to pet Makkachin. "Are you staying here for now?" 

She barks. It doesn't sound like she is, which means she must have shadow traveled over to Hasetsu to meet him. 

Yuuri runs his hands through her fur, and after a long moment of brushing away the sand off her back, he stands up and looks at the front door. He hasn't been here for months. Without further ado, he knocks on the door. 

Mari opens it, her eyes widening in surprise. "Yuuri! Is it really you?" For the first time in decades, she reaches out to him, initiating a hug. "Wow, fuck. I can't believe it." 

“Tadaima,” he breathes. The witch laughs at his sister's cursing. "It is really me!" He stifles an  _ oof _ when Makkachin's paws land against his back, the poodle wanting to join in the hug as well. He lets go of his sister, turning to pet the hellhound again. "Ah, Makkachin!" 

"This one," Mari snorts. "Did you know she eats at least three times more than Vicchan?" 

"She doesn't go out to hunt for rodents and small animals," the witch explains. "We've been afraid she might start attacking something like a food truck to eat." 

His sister pulls out an unlit cigarette from her pocket. "I don't think I can ever picture a hellhound eating an entire food truck." She narrows her eyes. "She has also been drinking out of the hot springs. Like what Vicchan used to do." 

Yuuri doesn't have the heart to tell her that Vicchan will drink from the hot springs again in fifty or so years. . He never learns from his punishments. He only pretends to be obeying the rules while the rest of them confidently go about years thinking he’s been tamed. 

“Yuuri!” A bright cheer from behind his sister nearly deafens him. 

“Phichit!” The witch finds himself wrapped around by arms, nearly strangled by Phichit. “I’m glad to be back. What did I miss?”

“A lot. Where’s Emil?” the witch asks. He glances around Yuuri, as if scanning for the Nephilim. He smiles at the hellhound panting and sitting on her hindquarters. “Oh, I remember you! You were stealing sausage off my plate!” 

Makkachin sinks to the ground, whining as if Phichit stabbed her in the stomach. Her two front paws cover her eyes, and it’s now terribly clear to Yuuri that she has picked up far too many habits and characteristics from Victor. Or perhaps, it’s the other way around. 

No. . . It’s from Victor. Makkachin became more and more ridiculous over the years, only egged on by Victor. 

“Is she okay?” Phichit questions, peering at the fake poodle. His two hamsters pop out of his collar, staring with beady eyes at the poodle. “She doesn’t seem well.” 

“No, she’s being dramatic,” Mari answers, cutting in before Yuuri could. “I can recognize her habits and her charm. They’re just like Vicchan’s.” 

Yuuri laughs. He’s surprised yet not by how quickly Mari grasps Makkachin’s mannerism. He pulls off his shoes, Makkachin casually walking by with her tail wagging into his home. Placing it by the door with the other shoes, he inquires, “But you guys didn’t tell me. What happened? What did I miss while I was in Purgatory?” 

“What happened to Emil?” Phichit counters. 

“He’s stuck,” the witch says, his face crestfallen. Out of the corner of his eyes, he glances at Mari, wondering if he should mention their mother. Maybe later. It’s something that should be said, even if Mari might not actually believe him in regards to the reincarnation and the fact that the Katsukis have been around for three thousand years or so. “Emil is Nephilim.” 

“A what?” Mari blurts out, her cigarette dangling from her mouth. It’s still unlit. “What is that? Is that some sort of evil creature?” 

“No,” Phichit answers. “It’s a half-human, half-angel. Because one of their parents was human while the other was an angel. But. . . I thought they were all killed because of the Great Flood. At least, that’s what the Book of Enoch said.” 

“I still can’t believe it’s the Apocalypse upon us,” Mari mutters, her head shaking in disbelief. Her nose wrinkles. “I can’t wrap my head around the idea of angels, archangels. . . Demons, I understand. They’re everywhere.” 

The witch shakes his head. “We’re getting off-topic. But long story short. . . The Great Flood helped get rid of some Nephilims while others were tossed in. Some were killed by the flood, some by angels, and some were ferried over into Purgatory. But they all ended up in Purgatory, dead or alive.” He winces, wishing that his words can be less confusing. The truth can hurt one’s brain at times. “Emil can’t escape from Purgatory, because they’re not allowed to leave that plane of existence.” 

“It would be nice if we can get him out,” Phichit murmurs. “Before the world crashed and burned, you guys were on YouTube and went viral, because some idiots were livestreaming the two of you fighting Lucifer. Emil was seriously kicking the devil’s ass. Mickey thinks that person who was videotaping it got killed by Lucifer after the two of you went into a sort of weird black hole, because the livestream cut off suddenly.” 

Yuuri tries not to place his face into his palm. He tried to get the crowd away from the fight, but some of them must have decided to value likes and views over their own lives. He shakes his thoughts, trying not to get them into his head. It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault that they didn’t listen. 

“Yuuri?” Phichit peers closely at the witch. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he lies smoothly. “Okay, tell me the state of the world. Once we disappeared. You said the world crashed and burned?” 

“Oh, yeah. Big time. The Internet is gone,” the Thai witch reveals. “One of the first things to go really. Power grid went down, and there went the electricity. Yutopia is lucky to have some backup generators and solar panels.” 

“Some squirrels kept on chewing through the power lines. Frequently,” Mari explains, pulling out her unlit cigarette and waving it around as she gestures. “We had to get the solar panels or else we would be waiting for half a day for the electric company to fix our wires while our guests got moody. They don’t say it, but they don’t like it when the complimentary Wi-Fi goes down.” 

Yuuri glances downwards at his black socks. It wasn’t the squirrels. 

“Anyway, the power grid goes down all across the world. Like someone let off an EMT bomb or something. No idea. Someone, one country’s military, decided to bomb Brussels. No idea why either. Then you have bombs flying everywhere, and the next thing we heard is that Europe got wiped off the face of the earth. Most of the United States was affected by a hurricane, and the last reports we got from the media was that a big bomb exploded in the midwest. Preliminary reports said it was a hydrogen bomb.” 

The witch inhales, feeling a migraine come on. He notices Mari stepping away, Makkachin eagerly following her. “Okay, do we have any good news?” 

“The satellites are working, so we get some communications from nutty conspiracy theorists in Australia. They’re not leaving their bunker, so we have no idea what’s the current status of that country,” Phichit says. “That’s what we know. There’s probably more things out there that we don’t know, but because of the intricate wards we set around Hasetsu, we don’t know what’s going on.” 

“Any other good news?”

“Yurio is still with us. We’ve been hiding him here, and right now, he’s doing some training with Takeshi and Yuuko.” 

“Yurio?” Yuuri’s eyebrows furrow. “Who is that?”

“Oh, Yuri Plisetsky. Mari gave him a nickname. She said it’s because Yurio resembles some dude named Takao or whatever.” 

The witch nods at that. “Other than what you told me so far, any bad news?” 

“We have no idea where Nikolai Plisetsky is,” the Thai witch reveals. "Yakov is probably dead. We couldn’t find him in the aftermath of. . . Chicago. We couldn't stay there too long with the demons swarming.." 

Yuuri's heart misses a beat. He tries not to let tears flow yet they gather around his eyes. He's not sure why he's crying. It's not as if Yuuri has ever appreciated a single form of paperwork Yakov made him fill out. 

"So who is still with us?" 

"Well, Mickey is still out looking for anyone who can fight with us. Guang Hong and Mila are out with him. And that's it. Chicago was chaotic, and the first thing I thought when I opened up Emil's international portal and sacrificed my phone was Hasetsu. Because of your sister and because of how isolated it is compared to Bangladesh. So we came here." A pause. "I was hoping that she is able to decipher and cast some of Emil's harder spells and execute his sigils." 

"What about Otabek?" 

"I have no idea where he is. Or if he is even alive. Yurio thinks he is, but Otabek hasn't been able to find us, if he's still alive." 

Nodding, Yuuri suggests, "It might be because of the sigils you carved into his bone. If it blocks Lucifer, maybe it blocks all the angels." 

"Maybe." A pause. "Mari wasn't able to understand it. I agreed with her when she said the base language of the sigil is something we've never seen before." 

"Probably Enochian, the language of angels." Then he inquires, "What about Chris?" 

"Since I sacrificed my phone to facilitate our escape, I have not been able to stay in touch with him. I hope he is still slowing down the process of demons and Lucifer, but I don't know." 

Yuuri sighs. It really sounds like they're stuck where they are until Lucifer figures out where they are. Except. . . The witch glances up, remembering a message he heard in Purgatory. 

"Yuuri, you okay?" 

"Umm. . ." He points upstairs. "I have a friend to visit," Yuuri says, granting a wave at the other witch. "It won't take too long." 

"Uh, Yuuri?" Phichit pauses, raising a curious eyebrow. "You're going upstairs." 

"Yes." Then Yuuri takes a hold of the handrails and walks to the second floor. The stairs creak with each step, and the floorboards groan under the witch's weight. He finds the storage room, his hand poised over the doorknob. 

Should he knock? 

Then he shakes his head. He doesn't need to knock. It's not as if he's roaming into someone else's home or into Mari's room. It's his own home, his mother's house, his parents' home. He touches the knob, and the door slowly slides open. He taps the light switch, the light bulb flickering weakly overhead. 

There is nothing there. It's somewhat small with a wooden woven tub in the corner and a folded table against the wall. The spare armchair is covered with a grime layer of dust, and it really looks like no one has cleaned this room for at least ten years. Yuuri is about to slide the door closed when a sword suddenly materializes on the wooden floor. It's glowing, the blade wickedly sharp and gleaming. 

The witch pushes up his glasses, utterly confused. He peers closer, recognizing the intricate patterns on the blade. That was not there earlier. 

A gruff voice suddenly says, “Don’t stand there like a fool. Open up the folding chair, and sit down with me.” With that, War appears as well, his back rigid against the dusty armchair. He’s still dressed in an American general’s uniform, topped off with a cap. 

Yuuri props the door open with a snap of his hand and then unfolds a chair tucked away behind some cleaning supplies. He's sitting in the doorway, feeling cramped with the little space of the storage room. He wets his lips, staring at War and unable to find any words to say. 

"Are we going to stare at each other all day?" War snaps, a bottle of whiskey suddenly appearing in his own hand. He swallows an entire gulp as if stressed, and then he says, "I'm glad you got out of Purgatory. You would have been no good to anyone if you remained stuck in there for the rest of time." 

"I. . ." Yuuri pauses. "Thank you?" What else can he say to the Horseman of War? 

Tipping the bottle at the witch, War snorts. "Now. Let's get down to business. The Apocalypse." 

"Yes, do you know of a way to stop it?" The witch can't hide the note of excitement in his voice. Here, he may finally find a solution. 

"Right now, it's practically too late. Haven't you seen the world outside of Hasetsu?" War taps his fingers against the armrest, his eyes glowing a faint red in his dark irises. "Someone blew up Brussels off the face of this planet. I’m not sure who hated Belgium enough to overkill the entire country. Most of Europe is a wasteland, and what is left of China is currently suffering through a contagious plague. The remains of South America are fighting amongst itself, and Africa and the Middle East, what's left of the Middle East, is starving. Victor and his reapers have the exact numbers of the humans who have passed away the last two weeks. I estimate about five billion have been wiped off so far, and more are dying with each passing day." 

"What happened to North America?" 

"Nuclear wasteland." War gives a slight smile. “In my civilian identity, I still represent what is left of the United States Army. The United States has military bases all over the world.” 

Yuuri slowly exhales through his mouth. After a long moment of hesitation, he inquires, “So you know there’s a way of stopping the Apocalypse? Even though it is too late?”

“Well. There is a way to stop it. I don’t think anyone but Michael can kill Lucifer, and by the time the Prince of Heaven decides to act, I believe most of the humans would be dead. There’s not much of a world to save by then.” 

“But there is a way?” 

War nods. “There is a way. Every Horseman has a weapon, you see. I have a sword. Victor, or Death, carries a scythe. Pestilence has a bow. Famine has a weighing scale." Gruffly, he adds, "Don’t ask me why Famine carries a scale. It was not her idea.” 

“What about the weapons?” 

“All four weapons, with a bit of transformative magic, can be turned into a key. Four weapons, one key,” War informs, his hand gesturing by raising four fingers and then leaving one index finger raised for emphasis. “This key can be used to open a direct gateway into Lucifer’s former prison.”

“You don’t even have to break seals?” Yuuri notes, his eyes widening in surprise. The witch reminds the months they’ve spent trying to chase the man who would eventually be possessed by the Duke of Hell. He remembers the time Lilith ordered her demons to break seals and eventually had to die to break the final one. But this key. . .

“Nope,” War confirms, clutching his bottle. “But do it right and then Lucifer can be thrown back into his prison. The Apocalypse stops.” 

The witch pauses at that thought, at this idea. It’s a solution, yes. But what world is even left when everyone else has died? What world can even be lived when most of the land is a wasteland, ridden with disease, war, and hunger? He asks, "When Lucifer goes back into the prison, what becomes of the Horsemen?" 

"Death continues reaping, but everyone else. . ." War strokes his chin thoughtfully. "For Pestilence and Famine, it depends. Pestilence believes humanity is due for a culling, a modern pandemic similar to the Spanish Flu. She strengthens in power every century or so, waning and waxing. Famine depends on the actions of humanity and the food supply chain. Occasionally, the weather. As for me. . . Well, it depends. War is a choice, after all. It's a decision to fight. Or not." 

Yuuri helplessly lowers his head. The situation feels hopeless. How could they even throw Lucifer into his old prison cell? Emil is not here, and Selaphiel hasn't made contact with Hasetsu. Victor wouldn't fight. No, he wouldn't bother fighting the Apocalypse. "Victor. . ." 

"Yes?" 

"Did he know about this? The four weapons can become a key to open Lucifer's cage?" 

"Of course," War answers, his face impassive. "Why would he not? He is the most powerful and oldest of the Four Horsemen." 

A hard feeling pools in Yuuri's stomach. First is shock. But why is he surprised? Victor has said it from the very beginning. He doesn't care for the fate of the world. And Chris, the demon confirmed this. Then there's a mild tang of rage, of anger. Victor has allowed this to happen anyway. All the suffering, all the horrors. . . 

The Horseman raises an eyebrow. "Let me guess. You tried to get an answer like this out of him a long time ago." War takes a moment to leisurely drink two gulps out of his never-ending bottle, as if trying it psych himself up. "I wouldn't feel too bad. Death has always wanted the world to end, because he has grown tired. Weary. But Death is the greatest of the Horsemen, you know. More than Death, more than an angel." 

"You mean like a primordial force? Like the Creator?" Yuuri recalls the exact same idea Otabsk presented, the idea that Victor is far stronger than he appears. 

"And like chaos, the darkness," War explains, his face neutral yet kind. He does not look at Yuuri with pity. "Death is a primordial force that binds together the universe. He's not the meddling type, which everyone should be thankful for. Can you imagine what he could unleash if he decided to pick who lives and who dies? He has always done what he has needed to do. Nothing more, nothing less." 

"But he has unintentionally helped the Roman Empire expand. Western Civilization has never been the same since then." 

"Which leads us to the second primordial force he controls." 

This has Yuuri blinking in shock. "A second?" 

"Yes." 

"He has two?" 

"He needs two," War corrects, his eyes steely on the witch. "How else can he collect every soul on this planet? He can't possibly get to everyone on time." 

It takes a moment for Yuuri to get it. "You're saying it's time." 

"Of course, it is time. He bends time. A few more seconds here. A few seconds there. An hour into the future to collect the soul of a boy dying from cancer. An hour into the past to reap the soul of an old man passing from age. Of course, it is time he controls. Why else would he see timelines of things that could have happened but didn’t? Only he knows how far back into the past or into the future he can go.” 

Yuuri pauses. Though War paints a pretty picture and tells the witch of Victor’s power, he is still missing one crucial fact. “But he doesn’t act. He doesn't try to create new timelines. He doesn't try to depart from what is supposed to be.” 

“You’re the only one who can convince him to. Out of everyone in the world, including the angels, the three other Horsemen, his longtime friends like Chris the King of the Crossroads, you are his mate, his beloved, the one who he chooses time after time. You would find there is little he can’t do when it comes to you.” 

“I asked. I tried to convince him—” 

Setting the bottle on the floor, War smiles. He finds his hands over his lap. “It’s not that you’re not trying hard enough. It’s that you’re not holding the correct leverage over him. You’re not making him see the world as it is. Until then. . . The world collapses.” Another bottle appears on the floor, and he says, “I think you can use a drink, Yuuri Katsuki.” 

The witch shakes his head, raising his hand. “I don’t need a drink.” Images of him pole dancing in Seoul, South Korea. Despite three thousand years’ worth of memories rocking around in his head, he doesn't remember that night, the first time he met Victor in this life. "I need to think." 

War nods in agreement, both bottles disappearing with a wave of his hand. "I suppose you don't need a drink. You actually shouldn't be drinking right now." 

"What do you mean?" 

War flicks his eyes down to Yuuri's abdomen, as if he can see through the layers of the witch's clothes. "Why else would an omega not drink alcohol?" 

The witch freezes, head raising and eyes snapping to the other man. "What, no way." 

A bubbly champagne glass suddenly appears in War’s hands. With all sincerity, he raises it to the witch. “Congratulations on your little joyful bundle.” Then War’s eyes roll as he downs the entire glass without missing a beat. 

“No, that can’t be possible.” Yuuri nearly blurts out that Victor has always used a condom, but he quickly realizes it’s not inappropriate to discuss this topic with a Horseman. Even if he’s somewhat close to Victor and has met Yuuri throughout a few lives. “Absolutely no way. You’re yanking my chain.” 

War shrugs. “I only know what I see.” A pause as champagne magically refills the glass from the bottom. “Eden has always been a place of life, you know. Like earth. Unlike Purgatory, Heaven, and Hell, where nothing changes and everything remains the same.” 

Yuuri's cheeks redden. "Nothing happened." 

War nods, not quite believing Yuuri's words. “I suppose he wasn’t thinking straight. The Garden of Eden has that quality of life, of revival, of fertility. The one bridging Purgatory’s door and the other planes of existence has always been the largest portion of Eden. Of what is left.” Then he snaps his finger. “I must go now. I have to attend a meeting with an Admiral.” 

Then War is gone.

* * *

Yuuri’s mind is in a constant flux of thoughts and emotions. He can’t understand what he should be thinking about first. Maybe he should be relieved that War has provided him a solution to the Apocalypse, but the very solution brings new complications. Logistics. How can they force Lucifer to return to his cage? 

Then there's the other figurative bomb War dropped. It's too soon to even know, isn't it? They just left Eden an hour at most. The witch is developing a headache just from thinking about it. 

He might have sat in the doorway of the storage room for a few more hours if it isn't for Makkachin's constant barking. It's not out of fear. . . It's from something else, the same kind of bark Yuuri has heard over the years whenever she sees strangers. 

Hair rises on the back of Yuuri's neck. He quickly shoves the folding chair back into the storage room. His eyes catch the glimmer of something shiny on the floor. 

War's sword. He left it behind. 

Yuuri doesn't have time to second guess himself when he shoves it into his coat, hoping this isn't a mistake. War left it behind for a reason, for a purpose. He slides the storage room's door closed and races downstairs, skipping the last two steps of the stairs. He notices Makkachin pawing at the door, and he doesn't hesitate to open the front door for her. 

She runs off towards the gates, stopping briefly to glance back at Yuuri. 

Makkachin wants him to follow her. 

But why? 

Yuuri clumsily slips his running shoes back on. Whatever it is, it's clear that she's not going to let him go until he sees whatever she wants him to see. He's running, trying to keep up with the fake poodle and her floppy ears as she races the familiar path down to the beach. 

The witch stumbles across mountains of sand until he finds Makkachin sitting on her hindquarters as she stares out to the ocean, her tongue rolling. 

Yuuri slows, his eyes squinting. He glances over to the rolling waves, adjusting his eyeglasses in confusion. It doesn't appear like anything is unusual. "Makka," the witch starts. "What is going on?" 

In lieu of answering, Makkachin continues staring out at the horizon, her tail thumping against the sand. It's cloudy today, and the lack of sunlight makes Makkachin's fur appear darker. Then Makkachin rises to all fours, resuming her barking. This time, she concentrates out towards the sea, her eyes remaining focused. 

Yuuri shakes his head, turning towards the spot where Makkachin's eyes stare, the same area she can't stop barking loudly at. The witch squints again, noticing a strange black blob appearing out of nowhere as it bobbles in the ocean. It comes closer and closer until Yuuri realizes it's not a black blob at all. 

It has arms and a head. It looks human, but Yuuri isn't sure he can trust his eyes right now. He almost wonders if it's a Leviathan from Purgatory, following him to earth. 

But no. The person, and Yuuri has definitely deemed it as a person, is swimming freestyle as they rapidly approach the shore. 

He's somewhat puzzled by the bright green snorkel, but perhaps it's someone who is escaping from something terrible. Or perhaps. . . 

The person lands on the beach, waves crashing down on their body. The first instincts in Yuuri demand him to help, but he stands still, unsure of the great unknown. 

_ It could be a threat.  _

Then the person stands, clad in a black wetsuit. Their head is completely covered, and Makkachin has stopped barking now.

It's like everyone is holding their breath. 

The snorkel gets pulled off, and Seung-gil Lee smoothly pulls off a black backpack, dropping it on the sand. Without losing a single essence of his stoic demeanor, he asks, sounding mildly upset, "Are you going to stand there, Yuuri? Or you'll help me find Mickey?" 

"Yeah. . ." Yuuri glances at Makkachin, who doesn't appear to be feeling threatened by Seung-gil's presence. It's probably safe, and he eyes the vampire as he approaches and picks up the waterproof backpack. Seung-gil doesn't appear as if he's hungry. Which is both a good thing and a bad thing. 

The vampire is quiet as they walk the beaten path up towards Yutopia. 

"Weren't you in France?" The witch inquires. He doesn't recall Phichit saying anything about Seung-gil. War mentioned Europe being a wasteland, so if Seung-gil survived whatever caused Europe to be a wasteland. . .

At the gate in front of Yutopia, Seung-gil pulls off his flippers, revealing bare feet. Tucking them under his armpits, he says, "It's a long story. I'm only going to tell it once, so you better gather everyone. Especially Mickey." 

Why Mickey? Yuuri doesn't ask. Seung-gil doesn't look as if he's in the mood to field any questions. He pulls open the front door and calls out, "Phichit, where are you?" 

Phichit comes sprinting from the kitchen, and Mari steps out behind her. 

Looking away from a grimoire from the guest parlour, Yuuri's father wonders aloud, "Yuuri, who is that?" 

"Seung-gil!" The Thai witch shouts, forcibly throwing his arms around the vampire. "Holy crap, you're here!" 

The vampire stands stiffly in his wetsuit, salt water dripping to the floor. He awkwardly pats a hand on the witch's shoulder. "I need to talk to Mickey. And everyone who's still here." 

"Lunch then," the other witch replies, pulling out of the hug. "I think Mila can find Mickey. Wherever he is."

* * *

Lunch finds everyone in the guest parlour. They couldn't use the private dining room, because it's too crowded there with Guang Hong, Mila, Mickey, Phichit, Seung-gil, Toshiya, Mari, and Yuuri. They occupy several tables. The vampire, Mila and Seung-gil, drink from a ziploc bag in lieu of an actual lunch. 

Yuuri tries not to think about where the blood came from. 

"Seung-gil," Mila says, louder than everyone else. Conversations draw to a mute. "I'm surprised that you ventured outside of Lyon." 

"Someone blew up the building," the vampire says, setting down the ziploc bag on a plate. "I. . ." He glances over to Mickey, the werewolf who has been staring quietly at the vampire for the past hour. "Everyone in the building but me died. They were crushed by the collapsing beams and debris." 

"How did you survive?" 

"I had to dig my way out of there," the vampire tells them. "It took me a day. Maybe two. All the buildings next to the headquarters were smoking and razed. There was no one alive that I could find." 

"So how did you get to Japan? How did you even know?" Guang Hong wonders, piping up. 

"When Yuuri and Agent Emil Nekola disappeared publicly on YouTube, Yakov's boss was trying to get a hold of Yakov. But he wasn't answering and neither was Phichit or any of the field agents. He pulled me off the drug cases to analyze the last recordings of your comms. Phichit shouted Hasetsu, Japan before disappearing in the area, so I figured you may be there. I had no choice but to leave Lyon for food once Europe got bombed." 

"Where's my sister?" The werewolf asks, so soft that Yuuri almost didn't hear him. 

Seung-gil looks directly into Mickey's eyes. "It was quick." 

But from the way the vampire looked at him, Yuuri suspects it's anything but. Seung-gil, who has never tried to meet other eyes, just did. And from Mickey's expression, it's clear the werewolf knows it too. 

"I used a bike to get across Europe. Had to steal a few cars off the streets, but it's hard to drive with all that debris on the road. Took me three nights to get to the Middle East." 

"You know how to drive?" Mila asks. 

"I know how a car works." A pause. Then the vampire continues, "It was easier from there, because there were people. . . I stole bikes and cars, I drank blood from people, and I was clearing about five hundred kilometers a night for a week and a half. I had to rob an abandoned scuba shop in Busan to swim over here.” 

“Busan. . . As in South Korea?” Yuuri inquires. He glances at Mila, wondering if a vampire can actually swim that far. He knows vampires can run faster and stay awake throughout the night. They’re not limited as humans are. 

“No, Bosana, Syria,” Seung-gil stoically says, not even cracking his neutral expression. “Of course, it is Busan, South Korea.” After a brief pause, he asks, “What equipment do we have? Radio? Comms? Guns?” 

“It’s Japan. Guns are banned,” Mari interjects, a unlit cigarette hanging from her mouth again. Yuuri is beginning to suspect it’s her last cigarette, and that the Apocalypse may force her to quit her smoking habit. 

“Limited,” Guang Hong answers, putting down his chopsticks. “I only have a Glock with a spare magazine. Twenty bullets. We have knives, though. One demon-killing knife, the others are other hunting equipment that won’t do anything to demons but slow them down. Mickey has been making improvised weapons.” 

"I've been crafting spells with Mari. We don't expect the line of defense around Hasetsu to last forever," the Thai witch informs. "I've no idea what can stop Lucifer from getting to Yurio." 

“There is one possible way,” Yuuri says, his cheeks flushing once everyone’s eyes turned to him. He adjusts his weight, tucking his leg underneath himself. "I found a solution that does not kill Lucifer but does neutralize him." The witch describes the solution, of the four weapons carried by the Horsemen. "That is what War said. A bit of transformative magic turns all four weapons into a key." 

"Problem is. . . We don't have any of those weapons," Guang Hong points out. "And how are we going to find any of them? They can be anywhere on this planet." 

Then Phichit says something, and everyone devolves into a discourse. What Yuuri brought is a small form of hope, but the logistics of using the key is nearly impossible without intensive planning. 

Yuuri closes his eyes, his hand taking off his eyeglasses and reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He didn't think of this solution thoroughly enough. He knows that Victor can be easily found but what of Pestilence and Famine? They can be anywhere in the world. And how can they put together the key before Lucifer inevitably comes for Yurio? 

And how do they even put Lucifer into his old prison? 

They don't have enough time. 


	7. Jude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take Me to Church by Hozier

It’s a military drone that comes in the afternoon that ruins everyone’s good mood. If there is a good mood to even ruin. It smashes through one and a half cherry blossom trees before crash landing into the hot springs, chipping off a few tiles and clipping the paint around the pool. Yuuri’s father isn’t happy about it. The witch knows he had spent several months remodeling the pool to make it look more authentic and natural-looking. 

“It’s an AeroVironment RQ-11 Raven!” Guang Hong announces gleefully, fishing it from the water. He's the only one who actually seems happy by this turn of events. “Used by the militaries of the United States, Australia, Lithuania, Belgium. . .” He frowns and lifts the broken tail. “Only weighs a little more than four pounds. Launched by hand. There’s something taped against the head.” 

“There is?” Mila peers over the hunter’s shoulder. “Huh, there is.” Chipped pink fingernails curve underneath the grey duct tape to gently rip the strange ivory-colored envelope off the pale white drone. 

“Careful,” Phichit warns. 

The vampire rips it open and pulls out a single sheet of white paper. She frowns and says, “Someone wrote on here. . . ‘Lucifer is coming. Brace yourself.’” She flips to the back and shakes her head. “There’s nothing on the back.” A pause. "It is almost like a badly written joke. With no punch line." 

“Who the heck knows we’re here?” 

“War the Horseman,” Yuuri answers, his mind racing. He narrows his eyes at the fallen drone. “This drone. . . An AeroVironment Raven—”

“AeroVironment RQ-11 Raven,” Guang Hong instantly corrects. 

“You said the United States Armed Forces has access to it?” Yuuri pauses. “It has to be him. His everyday disguise right now is an United States general.” But Yuuri doesn’t know why he didn’t mention it while he was hanging out in Yutopia’s storage room. 

Maybe he found out just now? 

"That's weird. There's no timeline, no dates. . ." Mila taps her chin, examining the letter. "I think we have to review the plans again." 

"Plan?" The witch has not heard anything about a plan. He knows that there are incredible wards around Hasetsu though. "What plans?" 

"Phichit, help him catch up. Get Seung-gil too," Mila says. She shakes the letter. "I'm going to need to look at this more closely." 

"Come on," the Thai witch says, tugging at Yuuri's sleeve. "I'll show you what we got so far." 

They find the vampire playing with Makkachin just outside of Yutopia. Seung-gil stoically tosses a tennis ball one more time before joining Phichit and Yuuri in a tour of Hasetsu's defenses. Left behind, Makkachin seamlessly melds into the shadow, traveling away with her tail wagging. 

The Thai witch points to the sky. "We have a weather charm that prevents the sun from appearing. It's so Mila and now Seung-gil can walk around Hasetsu during the day without a problem." 

It takes a few steps down a street before Phichit can point out to the temple overlooking Hasetsu. It's the same temple that helped arrange Hiroko's funeral. The Thai witch explains, "Over there is a barrier sigil we got from Agent Nekola. It surrounds Hasetsu in three points, and it is supposed to keep the entire town unnoticeable. We don't know how long it will last though. We reapply the sigils every two days, but Emil's notebook says they won't last a thorough inspection of an angel. So we had to put in more layers of defense." 

They move to stand in front of a small house, the same place Yuuko resides. Her parents' house, in fact. Three small dog-like creatures play in the small yard. Upon noticing them, one werewolf cup shifts into a small girl. Six years old and tiny with a thick purple hairband tucking back her hair. 

"Phichit!" One of the triplets gleefully shouts in English. "Are we babysitting Arthur again?" 

"No. But I will drop off Oliver tomorrow. He's getting bored and cooped up in Yutopia. Is Yurio here?" Phichit flashes a smile at the girl. 

"No, he's at the Ice Castle. He practices ballet a lot," she answers, her eyes glancing curiously at Seung-gil. "Is he a vampire?" She asks, lacking tact. 

Surprisingly, the vampire does not snap back and isn't offended at all for an invasive question. His lips form a small polite smile, and he nods. "I am." 

"Is it true vampires can turn into bats?" She eagerly inquires. Her two sisters shift back to their human forms, also watching Seung-gil. 

"Some," the vampire confirms, indulging in their questions. "But I'm not one of those vampires." 

"Ohhh," they say in unison. 

One triplet in pink questions, "Do you know if Mila can turn into a bat?" 

Seung-gil looks at Yuuri, his eyes flickering to Phichit. Then he diplomatically answers, "I'm not certain. If you can find her, ask." 

"Awww," whines one girl. Then she notices Yuuri and shouts, "Uncle Yuuri! Mom says to say thank you for birthday presents." 

Yuuri laughs and then pointedly gives them a look. "That's not really a thank you." 

"Thank you!" They sing in unison. 

They spend another ten minutes cooing and ahing over Arthur and petting the hamster. Yuuri is actually surprised Seung-gil is not impatient or hurried like he typically is back in Interpol's headquarters. Perhaps he doesn't feel pressed for time when there aren't bodies for him to examine. 

It’s once they clear the triplets’ earshot when Phichit resumes explaining their plans as they walk towards Hasetsu’s Ice Castle. The ice rink has been melted and cleared of water due to lack of electricity. The upper floor has a dance studio for more serious figure skaters. Yurio Plisetsky has taken a near permanent refuge there. 

"We have Yuuko and Takeshi and everyone else but Mari and Yuuri's dad on the perimeter. We wrote up plans depending on where Yurio is at the time of attack. Yuuko's house, the skating rink, or Yutopia. Yutopia has the best defences out of the three. Devil traps are everywhere. We got booby traps everywhere. Trapdoors leading into pools of holy water. No way out of those things. . ." Phichit pauses, his eyes glancing at Yuuri. "Your sister has a dark spell as the final defense. Really dark. But topnotch." 

Dark and topnotch? Yuuri can't help but think of the dark, ancient spells that guard the Emperor's palace and the tombs residing in the pyramids, the sort of stuff that stands for centuries without wavering. Is it that kind of dark? "What is it?" He asks. 

"She wants to tell you about it herself. Maybe after dinner. And she hopes that you wouldn't judge her for it." Phichit glances away, staring off at Seung-gil. 

What kind of spell needs Mari to explain it to Yuuri herself? He has never pictured his sister as having an inclination for darker spells. But she's an excellent witch. In the past and in the present. 

Phichit pushes the door open. The skating rink without any electricity is dark and cool. There's no one at the front desk, and flyers detailing class schedules are in a disarray. 

The Thai witch leads them both forward, up the stairs and to a small dance studio tucked next to a gym and office. 

Yuuri is relieved to see a blonde teenager practicing his pirouettes and other ballet motions under the tutelage of his oldest childhood friend. He smiles and waves at the werewolf, glad to see she hasn't changed a bit. "Yuuko!" 

She turns, letting go of the leg of a ballet student. "Yurio, one moment! Hang on!" She watches carefully as Yurio maintains his position, his leg held high in a split that forces a wince out of the witch. "Yuuri, I heard you're back!" 

He can't help but smile as he returns her hug. "It's great to be back. How is he doing?" He steps back and glances at the blonde teenager. 

"I can hear you," the antichrist snaps, his raised leg straining with effort. "What happened to the other guy?" 

"Lost in Purgatory." 

"In what?" 

"Purgatory. It's a land of monsters," Yuuri answers. 

"But why did you leave Agent Nekola behind?" 

The witch can't hide the flinch striking through him. "I didn't," he stiffly answers. "He is a Nephilim. That is a half-angel, half-human. Ever since the Great Flood where the angels locked Nephilims in Purgatory, they couldn't leave that plane of existence." 

Yurio stares at him, a long moment passing. Then he simply says, "That sucks." Lowering his leg, he returns to his pirouettes without missing a beat. 

* * *

Yuuri finds a moment alone with his sister as she puts the dishes away. With magic, it's a quick job as the brush ruthlessly scrubs and the towelettes dry the bowls. He makes his footsteps loud and says softly, "Phichit said you wanted to tell me in person about a dark spell you will be using if things become dire enough." 

Mari glances up, her head inclining. Expressionless, strangely so, she nods. She dries her hands and leaves the metallic brush scraping the bottom of the pan. "I have to show you it. For you to understand." 

Understand? All Yuuri can see is the endless possibilities of dark spells for Mari to be tight-lipped about a spell. Maybe a torture spell. Or a kind of ritual where a person goes through acidification for trying to break a barrier. Yuuri has seen many in his long career as an Interpol agent. Which one has Mari found? 

She goes into her room and pulls a locked iron box from underneath her bed. She tells him, "I already know how to cast this spell without the grimoire." 

"Mari. . ." Yuuri pauses, a foreboding feeling sinking into his stomach. "What kind of spell is this?" 

The box is opened, unlocked at the touch of his sister's hand. It groans as a book is lifted aside in favor of a cover-less paperback. It appears to be a common marketplace paperback found in the supermarket, selling steamy hot romances with werewolves and immortal vampires to bored readers. It seems overkill for just a book. The witch almost wants to laugh, but he doesn't. Not when Mari looks deathly serious. 

She parts the book and flips, the only sound of pages rustling in her room. Then she stops at a chapter, handing it over to Yuuri. "This ritual." 

Yuuri pushes up his eyeglasses, squinting at the subtitle. _Defense Spell 10a._ It seems innocuous enough. Then Yuuri begins to read, his eyes adjusting to the tiny font in English. 

_Best used in a cemetery or around a mass grave of the deceased._

That does not sound good. 

_Requirement: Mild blood sacrifice, hair of one deceased, rosemary, poison ivy, salt, dried apples, chicken feet, duck feet, rabbit foot, a large bowl, branch of a willow_

_Requirement: All ingredients must be in a hexbag prior to casting._

"You already have all the ingredients?" He asks, flipping the page. 

"Just keep reading." 

So Yuuri does. He finds the description of the spell and reads, eyes scanning the page. His palms feel sweaty as he goes, remembering his time in Interpol. He has caught witches who tried using a spell like this. He has caught witches who successfully cast a spell like this. But not of this magnitude. He didn't even know this is possible. "Where did you find this book?" 

"Hasetsu public library. It was hidden as a historical nonfiction. About Russia and the October Revolution. I removed the cover and put a romance novel in the cover before I returned it." 

Yuuri nearly chokes. He peruses the other pages, scanning through the titles of other rituals. They all have unusual names, nothing that will give away their true purpose. The descriptions are more helpful—and lethal. One ritual is simply titled _Water Spell Variation 3i,_ and it actually carries out a form of water torture. He can’t picture his sister actually knowing these things, even though she is an accomplished witch. “This is. . .” He can’t even bring forth the words to describe this horrendous book. 

“Yes?” 

“You can cast this?”

“Yes,” she confirms. 

“Okay.” And that’s the end of it. Yuuri can’t fault her for using a spell as dark as this. The end of times throws a lot of the old rules out of the window. He sits down on her bed, his eyes locked upon Mari. “There is something I have to tell you.” 

She tilts her head, her fingers rolling a cigarette. “What sort of something?”

“You need to sit down for this,” he says. He waits until Mari does, still playing with the unlit cigarette between her hands. “Remember what I said. . . That I was in Purgatory with Emil?” 

“Yeah. . . What about it?” 

“Vicchan arrived to help us,” Yuuri says. 

Looking worried, she interrupts, “Is he okay? He’s not back yet, is he? I keep leaving out dinner and snacks for him, but he’s not eating any of it.” 

“He’s fine. At least, he was when I last saw him.” 

She narrows her eyes, the cigarette brushing against her lips. “What do you mean by that? Did you leave him behind in there? In that place?”

He flinches. “Well. . .” He sighs. “There was someone else who was in Purgatory.” 

“Emil?” 

“Not just Emil.” He glances away from Mari, reflecting back to Vicchan, Emil, and. . . But Mari deserves to know. She deserves to know about this. It’s not Yuuri’s mother. It is her mother as well. Even if she might not understand that the Katsuki family is under an old reincarnation spell and might turn him into a loggerhead sea turtle, the exact same thing she did to Victor a long time ago if he tried to convince her of the reincarnation spell's existence. “Okaasan was there, too.” 

“What?”

“She was there.” A lump forms in his throat, and he wishes that he is able to bring her back from that land. “She was there.” 

“Purgatory. . . You said it was the land of monsters. She went there?” She leans forward. “Is she alright? Well? Hurt?”

“No. She’s fine.” A pause. “I only wish that she could have. . . Escape with me.” 

“Why wasn’t she able to?”

“She’s not alive.” 

They sit together in silence. 

“I miss her, you know,” Mari simply says. 

Another long pause. 

Then Yuuri breaks the silence. “Do you believe in reincarnation?” 

“No. Maybe. Who knows?” 

The witch stares at his sister, wondering if he could try to convince her. He cautiously begins, “Maybe it exists.” 

“It doesn’t matter anymore. Not with the Apocalypse and the end of the world,” she points out. “No one can be born again, and if they are. . . This isn’t the kind of world I hope for them to be growing up in.” 

With that, Yuuri can’t help when his thoughts think of Saki. Or maybe Ren. Who knows which babe lies in him right now? It could be either, but he hates this idea, the thought of raising them in this broken world where Europe is gone and Lucifer is out there, looming over the world like a child waiting to destroy a sandcastle on the beach. He doesn’t want to raise a child in a home that can be destroyed by archangels, storms, fires, bombs, or hurricanes at any time. He wants a place of stability and safety, a place like the island of Delos, a sanctuary for a mother pregnant with twins and hunted by a jealous goddess. Only this time. . . 

It’s Heaven Yuuri has to watch out for. 

So with the world falling in chaos, what can Yuuri do about it? 

“You’re right,” he tells her. “It’s not the world we would want children growing up in.”

* * *

He spends a lot of time with Yuri Plisetsky. Yurio, as everyone has taken to call him. The next two days, he barely sees Victor, who has a backlog of souls to collect and reapers too tired to carry on. He misses the alpha, longing to simply hug him and sleep in his arms. But Victor has a job to do, and Yuuri will not deter him from it. So he suffers in silence, even as Victor comes back occasionally to scent him, as if noticing the pining. 

Does he know? Has Yuuri's scent changed yet to reflect his new status? Has it shifted yet to be closer to Victor's, marking the babe as his own? 

A paper ball rebounds off his nose. 

"Hey, Katsudon. Stop it. Get out of your head." Yurio has taken to calling Yuuri a pork cutlet bowl since he watched, with vague horror and engrossed fascination, Yuuri down three entire bowls of katsudon and ask for more. 

"Sorry." Yuuri returns to helping the teenager. "Your leg looks a bit low." 

Yuri growls to himself. "It's always a problem with that leg." He lets it down and stretches, glancing into the mirror. "You smell weird now."

"Huh?" 

The teenager rolls his eyes. "I said you smell weird. It's not that you smell like onions or the gym or something. It's just that you smell like a different person. Almost a different person. But it's still you." 

Oh. Is Yuuri finally smelling like. . .? It has to be. 

And it seems like Yuri Plisetsky is picking up that thought. He winces and wrinkles his nose. "You are having a baby in these days? During the end of the world?" His mouth opens wide as he scolds, "It's so irresponsible!" 

Yuuri flushes. "It was an accident." Then he stops himself before he can blab nervously about his sex life to a kid who is barely sixteen years old. He doesn't need to break boundaries. "But it was not planned at all. . ." He didn't even know he got caught by a babe outside of a heat and in Purgatory, a land that remains unchanged and static. 

But what has been done is done. And Yuuri, who has felt the longing of his past lives and even in the present, can't help but wish to purr in content, satisfied in the knowledge of a growing babe. But a small part of Yuuri whispers, _how would Victor react?_

He will get there when he gets there. It's something for Future Yuuri to handle. 

"You're lost in your own head again, Katsudon," the antichrist says, his expression grumpy. "Do you know of a way to summon angels?" 

Yuuri slips out of his thoughts. "Uh, no. . . I don't know of any way. . ." But that isn't true. Yuuri has seen the summary for the Lesser Key of King Soloman, and in it, there are sigils for demons. . . And also, Lucifer, who is technically still an archangel even if fallen. Theoretically, the demon summoning ritual can be used for angels, but no one has tested it out. It's doubtful there will ever be a chance to. 

Yurio slumps, picking up the bad posture his ballet teacher hates. "I was hoping you can get in contact with Otabek. To see if he's okay. Shitty cell phones don't work anymore." 

Yuuri frowns. "He could be busy. I'm sure Heaven is preparing for battle, and he is needed among their ranks." 

"Maybe." But he can tell that Yurio is unsatisfied with the witch's answer. He misses Otabek a lot. 

He probably has not seen him for at least a month now. He has no idea of his whereabouts or of his wellness. Yuuri quickly thinks, and he latches upon a conversation topic that hopefully will not be so awkward to speak of. 

The witch changes the subject. "Did Lilia ever give you a role in _The Firebird?"_

"Yeah, she texted me that I'm the princess," he answers, grimacing. "I can't believe she dared to give me that role instead of the firebird. I'm no princess." 

Yuuri can't say anything about that. He doesn't really know the role very well, and he can't remember any bit of the ballet or the plot other than the involvement of the firebird itself and Koschei. So he tries to find another conversation topic and lamely asks, "So how are you doing?" 

Yurio pauses in his step. He raises his eyebrow, as if he knows exactly what Yuuri is trying to do. "Angry," he simply replies. 

The witch doesn't know what to say. He can think of the few times he's been angry before. He was once angry at the Interpol supervisor for looking over him and deciding that Yuuri had not met the requirements for a promotion. He was once angry at Vicchan for eating his favorite shoes when he was seven years old.

But deep down, he supposes there is something he is angry about. Victor. How can he stand there without wanting to prevent the Apocalypse? Perhaps, eternity is a long time and the end of the world is another page in the book, but. . . This is Yuuri's world, and he would hate to see it disappear, flaws and all. 

So Yuuri flops to the ground, lying down. He takes off his glasses, places them upside down on the floorboard, and mumbles, "Yurio. . ." 

"That's not my name," he snaps. 

The witch smiles. "I will stop calling you Yurio if you stop calling me a pork cutlet bowl."

The teenager makes a face, but he doesn't make any promises. "Why are you on the ground? No one has been cleaning it for days." 

"To meditate," he answers. 

Yurio sticks his tongue out. "You look like you're about to take a nap." 

"It's how I learned to control my dreams," Yuuri patiently explains. 

"Dreams?" There's something fallen and vulnerable in the teenager's very voice that makes Yuuri look at him more closely. 

"Yes, dreams." 

The witch is puzzled when Yurio strips off his ballet shoes and lies down a meter away from him. But he doesn't ask, doesn't push. He's beginning to figure out that the teenager is like a cat. Moody and bratty at times, but stay in his presence long enough and he will be used to it. He will come closer on his own terms. 

"How does it work?" 

"You breathe. In and out. Slow. Keep your eyes close," Yuuri explains. "You're drifting, relaxing. You're not trying to think of anything. No worries, no thoughts, just peace." 

There's a moment of silence. 

Then Yurio complains, "I can't turn my brain off. I can't stop thinking." 

"To think is to be alive." 

"Please. No philosophy shit." 

The witch smiles. He remembers how Mari complained about always thinking despite meditating. "So you can't turn your brain off? Then we will try to keep it on. Think of a waterfall. If you're right by it, what do your senses tell you?" 

"What do you mean?" 

Yuuri thinks of Chicago. What is close to there? It's best to fit something Yurio might have gone, to paint a natural picture he can easily imagine. "Have you been to a waterfall before?" 

"Yeah, in parks." 

"National?" 

"City." 

"How about the Botanical Garden?" 

"No." He pauses, "Grandpa once took me to Matthiessen State Park. Maybe when I was nine years old. It was a weekend trip. Before I met Otabek. Before I knew what I was." 

"What did you see?" 

"A waterfall," he replies, voice soft as if lost in the memories. "We took pictures using those sucky cameras. Disposables. We still have some at home. We still have pictures of that day." 

"What did you hear?" 

"Water. It's so loud," he says. "I couldn't hear Grandpa because of the water. There's swans in the lake. They're making the most horrible noise, because two of them are fighting." 

"Do you smell anything?" 

"Water. And bird shit." 

Yuuri huffs in amusement. "What do you feel?" 

"Grandpa's hand. I was holding it. He always gives me two fingers to hold, and my entire hand could wrap around them. Just barely." Then Yurio loudly exhales. "I see him in my dreams." 

"What happens?" 

"Nothing. He only stares at me and says nothing." He shivers despite the warm temperature inside the dance studio. "It's creepy. It doesn't seem right." 

"What else do you see in your dreams?" 

“Lucifer.” The name drops. 

It seems the very air chills. But that's impossible. Is it? 

"Yuuri," he says, sounding panicked. "There's something wrong with me. I'm glowing." 

Yuuri sits up, turning to look at the antichrist. Yurio glows from the inside, as if something is lighting up him. Or perhaps as if someone switched out all of his bones for radioactive ones. Then the witch flinches at his screams. 

"Yuuko," he shouts, clawing his way to Yurio. "I need help!" 

The werewolf bursts in through the doors three heartbeats later. "What is it? What's happening to him?" 

"I don't know. I've never seen anything like this before. Find Phichit and bring him to Yutopia!" 

She nods. "You're getting him there?" Then she's out through the door again, a white tail the last Yuuri sees of her. 

"I can," he loudly confirms, reaching into his pocket for a piece of chalk. He can't scratch it against the floorboard to draw, and he glances around, wincing. He needs. . . He spies the wooden barre, sliding over. It's not coated at all, pure wood under his touch. He scratches the sigil for teleportation. Shoving the chalk into his pocket, he slides to Yurio. "I'm going to move you." 

The teenager doesn't seem to be aware of anything Yuuri says. His eyeballs roll back, and he's hissing something, the sound guttural in his throat. 

Yuuri drags him over to the sigil. He's about to concentrate towards Yutopia when he hears words emerging from Yurio's pale lips. 

_Run, witch, run. You can hide as far away as possible, but I will find the boy._

Enochian. 

It's Lucifer, speaking through the antichrist like a mouthpiece. But Yurio can't be possessed by the archangel. Can he? 

Then the antichrist stops glowing, his black shirt completely soaked with sweat. His eyelids fall shut, and he seems unconscious. 

Yuuri doesn't take any chances. He needs Phichit to help examine Yurio. He drags Yurio closer to the sigil. Once they're in range, he lets his magic take him to Yutopia. Colors swirl around him until they find their positions, forming Mari. 

"Phichit is here," she says. Kicking off her bathroom slippers, she waves her hands, magic glowing from her hands. With shoes shifting and enlarging in size, a small cot suddenly appears in the guest hall. Without missing a beat, she shoves aside tables and rolls away mats. 

Yuuri runs the few diagnostic spells he knows. He rattles off, "Heart rate is reading a hundred thirteen beats per minute. Body temperature is thirty-six point three. He ate three hours and forty-six minutes ago." 

"He's sweating," Mari notices, rushing back to Yurio's side. "Sweating. His body temperature is low. That's not normal. What happened?" 

"I'm here!" Phichit says, bursting through the door. His hamsters, all three of them, jump down from his shirt and land right by Yurio's head. "Okay, what happened?" 

"A lot." In a rush, the witch explains, "I was showing him how to meditate. Then he was glowing—”

“Glowing?” Phichit interrupts, running his own diagnostic spell over him. “What color?” 

Yuuri thinks back, remembering the flashes of light glowing behind his eyelids like an afterimage. “It was red at first. Then it switched to white. It was like he was glowing from his bones. I could see his skeleton.” 

Kneeling down by the cot, the Thai witch curses. “That’s not good. I’m getting a reading of thirty-six point eight for body temperature. Heart rate is at a hundred per minute. Oxygen level is normal.” 

“I got a reading of him earlier. His heart rate was faster and body temp was lower.” 

“Then he’s recovering,” the other witch concludes. “I’m not sensing anything out of the usual. It doesn't feel like he was possessed, but I had Mickey raise the defenses around Yutopia. We should hide Yurio somewhere in case." 

"Panic room," Mari says. With a wave of her hand, the cot raises itself and heads towards the kitchen. The three hamsters squeak as they clutch the pillow at the sudden movement. "All the sigils have been prepared," she adds, mostly glancing at Yuuri. "Someone should stay with him." 

"I will," Phichit says. He nods towards the bed. "I can keep running diagnostic spells in case." He pushes himself up, jogging to catch up with the floating bed. 

"Fireworks will be sounded every time a defense has been breached," Mari explains, lifting her hand as if waiting for something to be given to her. A familiar iron box lands in her palms. "There are five layers. One is the barrier mixed in with an illusion spell." 

The boom of fireworks, louder than a gun, sends Yuuri jumping into the air. The very ground seems to shake, as if an earthquake has decided to run through Hasetsu. 

"Four layers," she corrects without missing a beat. The iron box lands on the floor, and she pulls out a stack of books. One of them is Emil's bound notebook. "I will try to make more." 

Yuuri follows her outside. "I'll help." The door slams shut behind him. 

"We have two more barriers and then we have the demon traps, which won't slow down Lucifer but should do something to his reinforcements. Last layer is us," she quickly explains. She sifts through the books and tosses one to Yuuri. "Flip to the bookmark." 

"Lightning spell?" 

"Yes." Then Mari drops a book to the ground, clearing her throat. She begins to chant in a foreign language Yuuri doesn't even recognize. The very ground seems to vibrate underneath them.

Yuuri skims through the instructions. A spell to call down lightning bolts, fired specifically at enemies. It can't possibly kill a demon, but it can slow them down. It requires a bit of hair burnt by witchfire to start, and the caster can't move from the spot they started in. He follows the instructions, fumbling as he goes with the book tucked under his armpit. Opening the book again, he reads the spell aloud, eyes squinting at the printed lines. "'Moon river, wider than a mile. . .' Mari, this is not a spell!" 

She glares at him, fingers gesturing wildly as if saying, _yeah, so what. Get on with it!_ She continues to chant in rhythm, the words spilling out without missing a beat. 

Yuuri summons up his memories of that movie with Audrey Hepburn. Sticking to the beat, he begins to sing in the best voice possible. It slowly comes back to him, and by the time he's repeating the song again, lightning strikes down from the sky. 

It's slow, the process terribly slow. But the lightning strikes are hitting somewhere just outside of Hasetsu, possibly at their enemies. He quietly resolves to ask his sister the mechanics of this spell. Theoretically, it can't be this simple. He has never seen a spell be this powerful be so simple. 

Yuuri sings awkwardly and then uncaringly as the fireworks scatter across the sky. Another layer of defense broken. He doesn't see it happening, but he can feel the very air around him grow cold, as if winter has taken root in his bones. He sings faster, as if the quicker pacing can summon more lightning bolts. 

Then the fireworks, bursting in the sky with green and gold, booms again. 

The next Yuuri knows is his face in the dirt and Mari squirming on top of him. She quickly rolls off, the books forgotten on the ground and her hand throwing out as she steps forward purposely. A dark figure, tossed like a toy, gets launched into the sky as fast as a missile. 

Mari grabs Yuuri's shoulders. "One, two, up and up!" She straightens and glances in the direction of the body. "If we're lucky, he went to China." 

There's screaming in the distance, and then Yuuko smashes against Yutopia's gate, the wooden fence crushed under her weight. Slowly getting up on all fours, she growls at a hidden enemy. Then she jumps out of view. 

He can barely see Guang Hong firing arrows through the gap. He falls under a horde of demons, who have managed to get around the traps. Yuuri doesn't see him get back up. 

They're retreating, losing to the greater number of reinforcements Lucifer has under his command. 

"It needs to be cast," Mari mutters, bowing her head. She lifts her palms to the sky, eyes closing. In another language, she simply whispers, "Surgit et mortuorum." Something in her pocket sizzles, exploding like a firecracker. 

"Is that the. . .?" Yuuri can't finish his words. 

"Yes," she confirms. 

"We have to warn Phichit. We have to retreat. . ." The witch pauses. He knows of no place to retreat. Half of the world is lost, and there is nowhere else they can go and safely hide. Is there? 

It feels like they're only pushing off the inevitable. There's just not enough time. 

"Good idea," Mari says, nodding. 

Then the fence around Yutopia comes crashing down. It lands on the garden of vegetables and other plants, grey dust gathering up in a small cloud. When it thins, there's a line of demons with knives waiting for them. Surrounding Yutopia. 

Mari casually waves. Half the demons turn into statues, freezing in the very place they stood, as if met with Medusa's petrifying gaze. 

And from the window on the second story, their father calls out in halting English, "Flee, foul creatures!" A magical molotov cocktail, perfectly aimed and aided by magic, explodes at their feet with orange flames hungry to eat flesh. Every single cocktail he throws is made from a sake bottle. 

The witch looks up in astonishment. "He's not running?" 

Mari slightly smiles. "He didn't want to follow the escape plan for the civilians." 

"How many bottles does he have?" Yuuri wonders aloud, bewildered as the tenth or eleventh bottle flies over their heads. It slows down the demons, burning their skin with a sizzle. 

"He was busy all week making them," his sister explains. "A bit of holy water plus sake. We had a lot of empty bottles, so he measured out just enough for an explosion. He got inspiration from a documentary about asymmetrical warfare in the Middle East." 

If they ever get out of this problem alive, Yuuri resolves to never upset his father. He feels slightly bad for the demons. 

A brown werewolf, about the size of a Fiat, hops over the remains of the fence. Growling at the horde of demons, it steps back. Then it bends its legs, launching itself back over the fence. 

"I'm annoyed," says a voice, deep. A sudden chill invades Yuuri's skin, sinking down into his bones. 

The witch glances over. He can't believe his eyes at all. 

It's Nikolai Plisetsky. 

But that's impossible, isn't it? 

No. It's possible. Lucifer must have possessed him, for he is decaying in appearance. It's not as bad as the vessel Yuuri saw in Chicago, but it's clear he's not going to be able to hold all of Lucifer's power. He can't contain the devil. 

Mari digs her bare feet into the dirt. Pointing at the devil, she throws her index finger to the east, as if manipulating a fishing line. With her sudden movement, Lucifer goes flying again, a black streak in the grey cloudy sky. "I need to throw him farther away," she mutters. 

"Did Emil's notebook contain a sort of anti-angel sigil?" Yuuri asks, thinking back to the day Otabek banished both himself and Lucifer for a few minutes. 

“There was nothing like that in the notebook!” Mari replies. Her face is pale, and Yuuri follows her line of sight. 

Mickey, bloodied and in his human form, lies on the grass. A glowing silver knife, half as long as a man’s arm, glimmers from his chest. 

Mickey can’t possibly survive that. A werewolf can’t survive a knife of silver, Yuuri realizes. That means he’s. . . 

Static energizes the very air. Swirls of glittering darkness circle Mickey’s form. His hand moves, and he sits up with the knife in his chest. His fingers close around the hilt, and he pulls it out. Staggering up, the knife is thrown at a demon with unnatural strength. Mickey doesn’t bleed anymore from his back as he charges against the horde once again. He's not fazed at all by the bullet holes appearing in his shoulder. 

“Mari, did he. . .?” Yuuri can’t finish his sentence. He can't help but think of the spell she showed him. The dark spell so innocently called _Defense Spell 10a._

_Description: Best used around a cemetery or a mass grave. This spell will resurrect the dead to follow your command. Command must be within the dead's power. For example, they can't reverse their decaying process, but they can fight for you or obey orders to attack a particular enemy. This spell will rise all the dead in a particular area and forge a single hive mind. Any freshly dead corpses, even those recently killed by the undead or others, in the vicinity will join the undead and the hive until the spell has been released._

She shakes her head, face still pale. "We need to move Yurio. There's not enough time." 

They run inside Yutopia, Mari leading the way. She knocks on the door of the small storage room next to the kitchen. "Phichit, we need to move!" 

The Thai witch slides open the door. "Alright, he just woke up right now." 

Yurio is mumbling under his breath, still lying on the cot. He does look better than before, and the witch is relieved to see some color in his cheeks. His head shakes from side to side, as if murmuring no, no, no to something. 

"The mountain is plan A," Mari says. "Maybe we have a chance at the temple. It has a better vantage point, and they have some supplies." 

"I've never been there, so you have to run the spell," Phichit replies, a hand tapping Yurio's sweating temples. He reaches into his pockets and pulls out a piece of black chalk, scrawling the sigil for teleportation on the side of cot. The mattress surprisingly allows the chalk to stick, the sigil finishing with a curve of Phichit’s hand. "I think—” 

Phichit never finishes his sentence. 

One second they are in the storage room neighboring the kitchen. The next second brings them outside, the roof and walls torn off as if merely cardboard. Yuuri glances at the dark figure approaching them in the wreckage of Yutopia in astonishment. He can vaguely make out the steam of the hot springs. 

There's no way they can defend Yurio. Not with Lucifer able to return over and over and over again no matter how far Mari throws him. 

The Katsuki siblings straighten, meeting Lucifer head-on. What else can they do? 

They're not running today. 

"Phichit, run," Yuuri orders. 

"I'm not running," he says immediately, blanching.

"I'm not. . . Letting anyone else die today," the antichrist croaks out, sitting up. 

Lucifer, still wearing Nikolai Plisetsky's body, smiles at this. He purrs, "No one has to die today. Not a person more. You only have to give in. Why do you resist so hard?" 

Mari, speaking in English with an accent, tells him, "You don't belong here. You must return to where you came from." 

Lucifer's smile disappears, just slightly. "You dare to tell me what to do, witch?" There's enough emphasis on the word _witch_ that Yuuri can't help but think of the other similar-sounding word. It's no accident. 

"Yeah." She beams at him, taunting and meeting him directly with her eyes. "I do." She waves her hand, magic turning Lucifer into a small cat, orange and yowling with outrage. 

Yuuri doesn't miss the opportunity. He concentrates, wood panels of their home stacking upon each other to bury the devil in a makeshift prison. He's layering the prison with the concrete foundation of their destroyed home when the prison begins to shake. 

Mari grits her teeth. With her left hand, she makes a slapping motion at the line of demons attempting to approach the antichrist, and they fly away, almost like tiny black birds zooming away in the sky. 

"Phichit," Yurio mumbles, trying to sit up with the three hamsters on his chest. "Please, I'm done. I don't want to see any of you guys die today. Please, enough. I don't. . ." He sinks back down to the cot, exhausted. 

The prison bursts, debris flying in all directions. Pieces of wood and stone would have skewed them if it isn't for Phichit's fast reflexes and the shimmering pale magical force field in front of them. It dissolves into thin air. 

Lucifer stands there, eight meters away, with not even a scratch on him. 

"Oliver, Arthur, I need you," Phichit simply says. 

The two hamsters chirp nervously while the third glance worryingly between Yurio and Lucifer. They hop from the cot, and with a snap of Phichit's finger, they grow in size until two tigers form with teeth baring at the devil. 

"Cool party trick," Lucifer compliments. "Useless against me." He doesn't even flinch as the two tigers advance, their teeth sinking into flesh. His hand strikes, somehow thrusting his fingers _into_ the tiger's chest. When he rips his hand out, something bloody drops on the wooden remains of Yutopia and the tiger shrinks in size. 

Arthur the hamster, small and unmoving in a puddle of his own blood, is nonchalantly crushed underneath Lucifer's shoe. The other tiger steps back warily as he glances back and forth between Lucifer and the Thai witch. 

Phichit chokes. 

Time seems to slow as Lucifer suddenly blinks to the witch, hand reaching into his chest for his heart. Yuuri can't even move, only watch helplessly as Phichit's body is tossed to the horde of demons with an easy twist of Lucifer's arm. 

He blinks again, towering over Mari. "No more compromise. No more fun and games." He grabs her shoulder, and a figure, a copy of Lucifer, suddenly appears behind her. 

Hands lit by witchfire, Yuuri springs into action, pushing the copy away. The copy reacts, shoving Yuuri right into Yurio. 

The antichrist kicks Yuuri's ankles by accident. "Ah, get off of me!" 

Yuuri does, rolling to the ground. He meets Mari's eyes, noticing Lucifer standing right behind her with a hand on her neck. "Mari. . ." His voice chokes, the syllables barely coming out. 

"Run," she orders, standing tall, steel in her very eyes. Her mouth opens again. Blood dribbles from the corner of her lips. 

Then a bloodied hand sprouts out from her chest, a red, still-beating heart clutched by a hand. Then it pulls back, Mari slumping like a puppet. Lucifer stands right behind her, casually watching the body fall. “How obnoxious she was.” With absolute disrespect, he steps over her fallen body. 

Yurio shakes his head, slowly standing up despite his legs. He shakes like a newborn fawn, and with eyes blown wide in shock and horror, he whispers, “Grandpa? What happened to you?” 

A figure slowly stands behind Lucifer. Her teeth closes upon Nikolai Plisetsky's neck, Lucifer reeling away in surprise before he could be bitten. He shoves her aside, turning around. His head tilts at the unusual sight. 

Even with a gaping hole in her chest and blood running all over the Yutopia staff uniform, Mari Katsuki, eyes glowing red, whispers again, "Run." 

"What an unusual witch," Lucifer muses, turning away from them. He raises his arm, as if about to strike Mari again. 

Yuuri seizes the opportunity. He dives right to Yurio's side, hand closing around the teenager's wrist. He pulls them in the range of the sigil Phichut drew, the world spinning around them. 

"Why are we back at the dance studio?" Yurio shouts in bewilderment. "This isn't the plan!" 

"I know!" Yuuri replies, reaching into his coat to find chalk. He runs over to the ballet barre once more, etching out the sigil for teleportation. "I miscalculated! I had to get us away from there!" With a twist, he finishes the sigil and drops the chalk back into his pocket. 

"A good plan. I like this place. Less people here," the devil says, applauding with red hands. He stands in the doorway, casually leaning against the open door. He mocks, "Perhaps if you teleport far enough, it will take me only a second more to fly there. There's absolutely nowhere you can run or hide. I will always find you." He steps forward. 

Yuuri steps forward, grabbing Yurio and pulling him back towards the sigil. 

"Why do you look like my grandfather?" Yurio whispers. 

It's strange how Lucifer simply shifts, his very posture and face changing. Wrinkles suddenly appear around his eyes and lips, and a deep voice, nothing like Lucifer's, utters, "Yurochka, everything will be okay. Trust me.” He holds out his palm, something like kindness in his eyes. 

He steps towards the devil, shaking off Yuuri’s grip. He’s lured, a sailor listening to an irresistible siren’s song.

The witch instantly stiffens. “Don’t listen to him!” Yuuri screams, his head desperately shaking. He longs to shake Yurio’s shoulders. The teenager is lost in the sight of his grandfather. But it’s not really his grandfather. And Yuuri suddenly realizes that Yuuko, Phichit, Mari, Mickey, and everyone in their team has never prepared Yurio for this very situation. They’ve never imagined Lucifer being so devastatingly persuasive by doing this. But how else did the devil trick Eve and lure Adam into eating the forbidden fruit? 

Lucifer dressed as Nikolai Plisetsky. . . Yuuri can’t deny how clever it is for the devil to employ this ploy. He has thoroughly possessed him, and in this moment, he has adopted some of the real Nikolai Plisetsky’s mannerism. From the way Yurio is swayed and convinced by his voice, it’s working almost perfectly. And Lucifer knows this, his wrinkled eyes slightly smiling. 

It’s so cruel. 

Yuuri reaches out, taking a hold of the teenager’s shoulder. He forces them both backwards. Then his magic surrounds them both, dragging them a few kilometers away from Yutopia. They’ve landed in the kitchen of his home in Matsuura, leaving a smattering of dust on the floor. Letting out a slow breath, the witch is relieved to see Yurio seemingly snapping out of it. He watches the teenager take in the new environment. 

“Where the fuck are we?” he asks, shaking his head as if trying to clear his vision. “We’re not in Hasetsu anymore.” 

"My home." Yuuri's answer is calm, deceptively so. Inside, he's shaking with fear, wondering if this moment may be his last. He rises to his tiptoes, raising his arms. He's tearing apart the cabinets, searching for something useful like a knife or something. It's not going to slow Lucifer down, but at least, Yuuri can do something. He finds the butcher knife and the block of stainless steel knives on the top shelf of the cabinet, away from Makkachin's paws and mouth. She's very fond of chewing the wooden handle. She grows easily bored of the oversized doggy toys. 

The witch is relieved she’s not anywhere in sight. 

She’s probably safe. Hiding. 

"Can he find us?" Yurio asks, his face as pale as a ghost's aura. He stiffens, watching Yuuri make a mess on the floor as sugar spills onto the tiles in a white waterfall. "Because I'm not going to put you in danger. I'm not worth it. I’m not worth it at all. For you and your baby." 

"Yurio, if Lucifer gets you, he will. . ." Yuuri's voice trails off, his ears picking up some noise coming from the back patio. His voice drops into a whisper. "Yurio, follow me. Don't make any sound." 

Every breath, every creak of the floor, every heartbeat sounds as loud as an airplane’s engine starting up. Yuuri doesn't have much of a choice as he holds the block of knives and the butcher knife in his hands. He slowly makes his way to the bedroom, to where he has stored some of his extra ingredients. 

When Yuuri slightly pushes open the sliding door, his hands drop the items in shock. 

Nikolai Plisetsky, who is really Lucifer, grins from the bedroom window. He jauntily waves at them. 

"Yurio," the witch says, blue sparks flying from his hands. "Run." 

Yurio turns and screams, a loud sound that forces the witch to look back to find Nikolai Plisetsky standing two meters away in the hallway. 

He looks like a zombie, pieces of his face falling off. He is already worse than what they’ve seen of him in the ballet studio. Decaying under Lucifer's power, because his body can't contain it. He's not going to hang on very long, not with the disturbing look of his thin arm underneath the black winter coat and the penetrating rotten smell of meat, of burnt flesh. 

Yuuri chances a brief look back. Nikolai Plisetsky is also there, a copy grinning grotesquely from the window. One of them is real, the other isn't. Unless Lucifer can be in two places at once? Yuuri almost doesn’t want to find out. The witch levitates the knives, words sounding calmer than he actually feels. "Yurio, get down!" 

The blonde does, dropping to the floor into a ball, and eight knives go flying at the two copies of Lucifer, four in each direction. The witch concentrates, sparks like miniature fireworks dancing bright and blue from his sleeve, as he transforms the wooden block into a hyena, barely bigger than a house cat. 

The devil laughs, kicking aside the hyena. "Witch, we have played this game on the other side of the world. You still try to make yourself a match for me?" The knives float midair in front of his face, wavering between Yuuri's magic and Lucifer's will. 

Yuuri glances back, finding the knives unable to penetrate the bedroom window. With a pointed flick of his hand, the four knives redirect themselves back through the doorway and join their brothers, floating in front of Lucifer's face. The hyena snarls at Yuuri's feet, its eyes boring holes at the devil. The witch doesn't know what to do, what can. . . 

"Yurio, pray for Otabek!" 

"What?" The blonde shrieks, a remnant of Yurio Plisetsky that the witch can't almost help but smile at. 

Then something grabs him from behind, lifting all of the witch's weight and throwing him out through the window, his face instantly looking away from the shattered glass as his entire hand splays around his abdomen, hoping. He hopes with everything he has in his heart that the babe is stronger than any human baby. 

He lies underneath the sun, supine in the shattered remains of their bedroom window. He can barely hear anything, just the sound of Yurio's voice. 

"Don't. Please." A pause. He sounds terribly vulnerable, as if someone has ripped open his heart and exposed the soft flesh that lies underneath the prickly shell. "He's pregnant. Please. Don't." 

"I should send them both back to the father then," the devil muses. "But I don't have to. I can spare your grandfather as well. No one has to be harmed. I promise. You only have to say yes." 

_Don't believe him, he's lying,_ these words are on the tip of his tongue. What comes out is nothing instead, as if an invisible hand has clamped over Yuuri's mouth. 

"Yes." 

Yuuri instantly shuts his eyes at the blinding bright light, instincts kicking in. Two seconds later, a hand forces him up against the battered remains of their home. The wall is cracking, and a pale hand, slim and delicate, grasps Yuuri's neck, holding the witch up. The eyeglasses fall off the witch's nose, but he can still see the blurry details. Glass shards fall off the witch's coat, musically tinkering against the floorboards. He chokes, suffocating. 

Yurio's eyes are wrong. Whereas they are usually expressive, whether in anger or rage or attitude, they are frighteningly empty now. The voice coming out of the teenager's throat grates against Yuuri's ear. "I did promise, didn't I?" 

With his nails digging desperately at the devil's grip, Yuuri's eyes focus on a mass of black behind the devil. The broken remains of Nikolai Plisetsky's body. He doesn't look as if he's breathing. 

He's going to die here. Isn't he? 

Like what happened almost a millennium ago. 

Lucifer continues, perhaps mentally communicating with Yurio. "Your grandfather has little luck. I've been inside of him for too long. Maybe he can survive, maybe he can't. I'm not unreasonable, little Yuri. But the witch. . ." A smile quirks up the devil's lips. "Oh, how cute. You have a soft spot for him. I suppose he can live for another day. Since you have been so agreeable today." 

Yuuri gets dropped to the ground, falling like a ragdoll. 

"Hmm." The devil looks up at the sky, stepping out of the large hole in the wall he created with Yuuri's body. "It seems an archangel approaches. We must go to set the stage. Bid farewell to your witch friend, Yuri." 

Then the devil is gone, and so is Yuri Plisetsky. 

Yuuri lays his head back, the sunlight hitting his face. It seems so warm. Yet, there is a deep chill locked in the witch’s bones, the knowledge, the painful _guilty_ idea that there might have been something the witch could have done but didn't, sinks and bites away at Yuuri. He pushes it away, and when a finger suddenly touches his forehead, he freezes, wondering if Lucifer has returned to finish the job. 

But no. He does not smell Yuri Plisetsky's pheromones. He opens his eyes, wondering when did he ever shut them. The soreness in his bones and faint cuts on his skin disappear, and the finger pulls away. 

His vision focuses. 

"What happened?" Otabek intones, his hand reaching out to help the witch stand up. He picks up the fallen eyeglasses, his dark eyes staring at the smashed lenses. 

"I can fix that." 

The archangel nods, handing it over by the rim. "So what happened here?" 

"Lucifer," Yuuri answers. "How did you find me?" 

"I felt Yuri's presence once Lucifer removed the anti-angel sigils carved into his bones," the archangel explains, watching the witch shake his eyeglasses and magically fix the lenses. "So. Congratulations." 

"Huh?" 

"The baby," he says casually, as if he has randomly ran into Yuuri at a coffee shop and noticed the lovely weather. "It's a Nephilim. Its growth is accelerated, which is why it's so obvious." 

Yuuri's throat is dry, his heart pounding loudly in anticipation. "Is it okay? I was thrown out of the window. . ." 

"Nephilims are strong. It takes a lot more than that to forcibly kill one." 

Yuuri remembers. Oh, he remembers how Otabek killed him a long time ago. If anything, it would be Otabek who would know. He stares at the archangel, wondering if this may be his true end. "Are you going to carry out Michael's order?" 

Otabek shakes his head. "I have a line of worse offenses. One more won't hurt." He offers a small smile at the witch. "Your child will be born in less than three months." 

"What." 

"Less than three months," Otabek repeats. "As I've said. Accelerated growth." 

Yuuri feels faint. "Are they going to grow that fast in their childhood?" He has vague memories of the baby Hiroko throwing up on him while Mari laughs. It would be kind of nice to skip that era of childhood development. But at the same time, he longs to see every step, every first word, every first laugh. These are strange parental feelings and ideas crawling around in his heart, permanently settling down. Unconditional love. 

"Depends. Lucifer's child, your friend Emil, grew up fast, because he needed warriors for his war. Others, who did not grow under such influences, had the same development as a human baby." Otabek stares out at the distance, dark eyes watching the horizon. "I must go. You should call for Victor for help. Before the Four Horsemen set what remains of Japan on fire." 

Then Otabek is gone. 

The witch's mind whirls. So they can grow up as fast or as normal as possible? He almost wonders how he can call Victor for help when he doesn't have a working phone, but then he remembers their bond. And prayer, a way for Yuuri to reach Victor. 

And did Victor notice the witch. . . 

Yuuri closes his eyes, about to pray. 

"I suppose he really has changed," muses a voice from inside the home. Victor pushes away the tattered remains of their sliding door. "He has turned his back from Heaven." 

The witch drinks in the alpha, his knees suddenly shaking. Yuuri doesn't stop moving, rushing, as he throws his arms around his alpha. "Please," he whispers, pressing his face against Victor's tie and chest. "Stay with me." 

"I'm here," Victor whispers back, his arms wrapped around Yuuri. "I'm here. I will always be here." 

"Did you see. . ." 

"I came when I felt you panic through the bond. Then I saw Nikolai Plisetsky's name on my hands and knew it was time to collect. But I was afraid. Nikolai Plisetsky. Matsuura, Japan, it said. Most of Matsuura has been destroyed by the tsunami. I didn't expect anyone to die there again," Victor explains, his warmth so comfortable that Yuuri wishes to never leave. 

"And. . ." Yuuri glances up, meeting his alpha's eyes, the cool azure pupils dilated. "Did you hear about the. . ." He can't finish it, his throat closing up. Will Victor hate him? He didn't want a child, did he? He didn't want the wrath of Heaven. . . Yuuri feels sick just from thinking about it.

"No, I can never hate you," Victor breathes, reverent and devout. "We must hide. Before they notice." 

"But," Yuuri protests. He pulls away and shakes his head at his alpha. He feels like, to put it in the words of one Yuri Plisetsky, like shit. He has seen his friends die. He has watched his father disappear. And Mari, a zombie until her spell ends. He can't even think about his friends, his family. . .

"Yuuri?" 

He is going to put his foot down hard. This isn't an argument about the dishes or about whether or not Makkachin deserves the fried chicken feet. This is not the argument about the shoes or about the ridiculous amount of money Victor likes to throw at him, all the expensive clothes, shoes, and jewelry. This is about life and death, about the inevitable fate of the world. This is about Yuuri making a stand to the person behind Death, the man he loves. 

He can't convince Lucifer of peace. He can't fight off Michael, and neither can Otabek. But what he can do is ask for more time. 

So he says: 

"Please. If there is anything you can do, please do it." He pauses, aching and wanting to hold out his hand, desperately _needing_ to connect. "I don't want to raise our child in this world. I don't want them to grow up under fake stars of Heaven. I can't bear to see them in Purgatory, running away from the monsters for eternity, if we ever get caught." 

"Yuuri. . ." 

"Otabek said to have hope. I'm hoping now that things can be different." Yuuri continues, remembering Saki in his dreamscape. "I had a dream, Victor, that we raised two children in Japan. Saki and Ren. Saki is learning ballet, and she hates superhero movies and loves Barbie. Please, Victor, please." 

There's a loud boom up in the sky, the clouds parting as two great forces clash into one another. Sunlight dances through the bright figures of two archangels. 

Victor glances up, his azure eyes bright. 

"Victor?" There's a tone of hope in his voice. 

The angel lets out a slow breath. "Yuuri, I. . ." Then a hand suddenly covers his mouth, shock evident. His eyes flicker back and forth between Yuuri, uncertainty in his very expression. "The curse," he murmurs. 

"Victor, please," Yuuri begs, his mouth speaking directly from his heart. "Please. We need more time. Please. There is hope. We only need to work on it." 

Victor looks visibly torn, his eyes flicking back and forth between the battle in the sky and Yuuri. About to say something, Victor opens his mouth. "I must collect." Then he suddenly disappears. 

"Victor!" Yuuri shouts, twisting and turning. Where did he even go? He glances upwards at the sky Victor can't help but be worried by. Why? 

Yuuri gets his answer a second later, watching a bright star fall from the sky. He can't help but feel as if all hope has died today, and he puts his hands to his mouth and whispers, hoping that Victor can hear him this time, _please, don't put your faith in the Apocalypse. Don't leave me. Just put your faith in me. Believe in me. Promise._

He feels a blast of grief from somewhere, no, from the bond. And then he hears Victor's voice, loud and clear as day. 

_Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will stay, and there I will be waiting for you. May the Creator deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me._


	8. Selaphiel I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sun by Sleeping At Last

“Selaphiel.” The Creator announces. “Archangel of Hope. Rejoice.” 

And there, Selaphiel opens all of his eyes, aware of the world, the very beat of the universe itself. He feels a great presence, warm and welcoming. It feels like. . . Home, a place he can bury himself in. A safe haven. He smiles softly and bows his head. 

"Do you know what you are?" 

Selaphiel nods. A Prince of Heaven, the mighty warrior, the protector of hope. He shoves down the tiny whispers of doubt that he does not understand what hope is. It doesn't matter. He shall set forth and do what the Creator says. 

He goes to stand by his older brother, Cassiel, who was born before him. With his swords sheathed, he stands guard, staring blankly at the two archangels standing opposite of him in front of the Creator's throne. He instinctively knows who they are without needing to ask. Raphael, Archangel of Healing, on the right. And closest to the Creator is Michael, the General. 

He stands guard for a long time or perhaps for merely a few seconds. The universe is young, barely aware of the concept of time though it will understand it soon. He briefly wonders why they must stand guard for the Creator in Heaven, but he quiets his thoughts. He must not question anything. He does not need to question anything. 

A dark figure, shimmering like stars and blanketed by a cloak of black, emerges from the very spot Selaphiel was born. A strange weapon is held by bitterly sharp claws. A scythe, dark as a black hole, nearly forces Selaphiel to draw his weapons out of fear and instincts. This is not something he has seen before. 

This is something that  _ terrifies  _ him to his very core. 

Then its eyes open. All of them, so many eyes blinking and watching silently without judgement. Some of the eyes meet the Creator. His wings spread, as if testing its range. 

His wings have eyes, too. White eyes that blink set upon wings so dark that, like the scythe, it seems to absorb colors. An abyss of darkness with no end in sight. 

The Creator looks back without a word. 

The silence is all-encompassing. 

The stranger doesn't seem dangerous at all despite his appearance. He peers at every single archangel present and steps away, his black robes swishing quietly. The scythe disappears, and with it, so does the tension in the air. He stands right besides Selaphiel, patiently waiting and wallowing in silence. He doesn't seem to mind the lack of a warm welcome. 

The next archangel forms, a mess of colorful wings curling around themselves. Pink, red, yellow, all vibrant colors that focus him to stand out. He slowly unfurls, eyes opening. 

"Uriel. The archangel. Rejoice." 

Uriel bows, his head inclining at the Creator out of respect.

Selaphiel sneaks a peek at the dark angel, who glances downwards at the warmer welcome from the Creator. Then he looks off to the side, not directly at Raphael but in her direction. 

The archangel flicks his eyes away. He's curious, but he's not going to ask. He's not going to stare either. He feels it may be mildly inappropriate. 

Once the last archangel has been created, he goes out into the universe to try his new wings. He zooms around the buddling galaxies and breezes close by a black hole, careful to not get sucked in. Gravitational forces sling him out, and the young archangel lets out a surprised laugh. 

"Careful," says the Creator, Their warm presence reaching out before Selaphiel could accidentally slam into a young sun and dislodge its orbit. "You're close to earth." 

"Where?" He asks. Selaphiel doesn't dare ask about this earth. He's certain he will soon know. 

"There." 

Selaphiel sees it. It's not too impressive. It's merely a speck of dust like all the other debris, asteroids, comets, and planets he has seen out here. He doesn't say anything, and he keeps his thoughts quietly to himself. 

The Creator softly laughs. "It will take billions and billions of years for it to become something. Until then, it is only a speck of dust." 

The archangel nods. He vows quietly to himself to return to this spot frequently to observe the process. Billions of years? It's not something that will happen in an instant, but perhaps, he will see interesting things along the way. 

And it is interesting. 

The first things merely happen by chance. It's an unusually interesting sight as atoms and chemicals and physics randomly occur in the right formation to make life, to make amino acids and proteins. Like puzzles forming a picture. 

In the meanwhile, he spends time with his siblings. Michael is gruff but firm, righteous in his own way. He remains the most focused upon running Heaven along with Cassiel, who abides by the rules and harshly chides those who step out of the line. Raphael is kind, her playful nature drawing in other angels. She bonds easily with many friends. The messenger, Gabriel passes along messages and orders across galaxies. Uriel spends much time attending the gardens, but it is the second oldest archangel Selaphiel connects to the most. 

Lucifer catches him practicing with his sword. The Morningstar is bright, brighter than the giant sun the archangel flies around. 

Selaphiel's head inclines at his older brother. "Lucifer." He does not put away his sword, but he does relax his stance. "Is there an order from Heaven?" Typically, it would be Gabriel bringing the message, but sometimes, the archangel is busy. 

Glowing softly, the other archangel smiles. "No. Only Michael testing this, testing that." His eyes flick across Selaphiel's weapon. "Are you practicing with your sword?" 

Selaphiel merely raises an eyebrow. He knows the Morningstar has been watching him from hiding for a while, pretending as if he merely stumbled upon the archangel. He has little patience in playing any of Lucifer's games. Not now, not ever. 

"So you sensed me." 

"I did," the archangel confirms. 

"Hmm." The brightest archangel gives him a kind smile. "Do you want to practice sparring?" 

Selaphiel takes up on his offer. Fighting, he can understand. He doesn't fully understand the nuances between him and Michael, but he knows this. He takes up a stance, and so does Lucifer. 

He has never learned how to fight from anyone, but every move feels like instincts, every move like a practiced dance he doesn't remember learning yet somehow knows anyway. 

And so he begins a relationship with his second oldest brother, growing evidently closer to him than the others. Selaphiel doesn't mind being alone, but he's also glad for Lucifer's company, if he is being honest with himself. Lucifer proves to be adept at sword fighting and even better at illusion work. It's a struggle to notice where Lucifer truly lies when he makes multiple copies of himself for Selaphiel to stab. 

He even dies quite authentically, ever the trickster. A burst of bright light and a loud scream, and then excessively dramatic falling as wings and claws and celestial light disintegrate to gravitational forces that incorrectly pull Lucifer's copy in the wrong direction. 

It's the small details that give Lucifer away. 

Selaphiel gets better at recognizing the fake copies. Lucifer gets better at creating them. 

"Hmm, you weren't panicking at that," Lucifer comments, appearing right besides him as his copy falls into a gigantic red sun. "What did I do wrong this time?" 

Selaphiel only smiles. 

"Seriously? What gave it away?" 

The archangel doesn't give an answer. 

"I'll figure it out someday!" He calls out. 

"Maybe." 

Selaphiel flies off, traveling faster than light across space and landing in a familiar solar system. He folds himself tighter, making himself smaller as he peers curiously at this splendid blue planet. No one else has taken an interest in this place other than the Creator. And every time he comes, he witnesses something new. He finds a great deal of joy in visiting every once a while to see what has changed. 

He lands on the planet, his form knitted tightly within a vessel the Creator outfitted him with. He peers at the many plants and trees littering randomly across the terrain. Some are new. Others appear as if they've evolved since he's last visited. 

But unlike all the visits before, he's not alone. 

There's another angel here. 

Selaphiel presses forward, curiosity getting better of him. A great creature with feathers lies in the dirt, partially hidden by scrubs. And there is a figure clothed in dark fabric with silver hair watching the creature breathe.

"Hello," the other angel says, noticing the archangel. "Selaphiel, is it?" 

"I am." He pauses, his bare feet stilling a few steps away from the scene. "And you are the Nameless." 

"I am." 

Together, they watch this colorful creature pant, its breaths coming out slower and slower. Then it stops, and Selaphiel feels as if a painful realization has struck him. The Nameless reaches out, gathering the small soul within his arms and putting it close to his heart. 

"Is that. . ." Selaphiel can't quite name it. He has never confronted the concept of mortality. Angels could live forever, but they can be killed by some means. Why think about something unlikely to happen? 

"Yes. It was his time to go." 

"Is this what you do? Death?" 

"I have been culling this planet for a long time," the Nameless says, revealing his pale fingers covered in strange marks. "No one else does it." He stands up, brushing away some invisible dirt off his hands. 

"Where are you going?" 

"Another soul beckons," he simply says, expressionless. Then he's gone, his dark wings in flight and all of his eyes open wide. 

Selaphiel watches those eyes grow smaller and smaller until there are mere white spots on the other angel. He represses a shiver at the thought of death and tries not to stare at the dead creature by his feet. Mortality is a difficult concept for him to grasp, and he does not feel like trying to understand it today. 

He doesn't need to understand it. Not today. 

He does not look at the creature when he flies away. 

The thought of running into the Angel of Death keeps Selaphiel away from earth. But it's nonsense, that feeling of dread and terrible anticipation. 

He later returns to this planet when the feathered creatures no longer roam the land. Their descendants, far smaller than their ancestors, still dominate the skies. 

There, he finds something new. Something called humans who have discovered fire. From his perch, Selaphiel watches in bemusement as they experiment with it in awe. It's nothing compared to the process of nuclear fusion in stars, which remains infinitely more beautiful in Selaphiel's eyes. 

He can't resist coming back more frequently as these humans begin developing tools and settling down to farm the dirt rather than permanently roaming and gathering their needs. And here more angels arrive to watch, and Selaphiel has to stay away from large groups of humans to avoid his own kind. He has nothing against angels, but most of the time, he would rather be alone. He dislikes the squabbling and the occasional contest of who has met the Creator the most. 

And when he isn't alone, Lucifer is his company. 

Other angels are noticing it as well. Raphael, who bothered to fly down from Heaven to find him, perches above him, her face indifferent to the people below them. "You don't come home that much. You're as bad as Azrael." 

Because the Nameless was never given a name by the Creator, some angels have chosen to call him Azrael. The Nameless reportedly doesn't care if he's called by Azrael or nothing at all. 

"The Nameless has souls to collect. He will, if ever, rarely find the time to return." 

"You don't have any job. No need to collect souls. So why do you spend so much time here?" 

Selaphiel stares down, watching a fire blooming slowly under a human's touch. "I don't know. I feel compelled to." 

"Is it because of hope?" 

"I don't know." 

Raphael nods, taking out her sword to trim away her claws. Her wings flap, though no wind is created. "The Creator assigns a human named Adam to protect and guard the Garden of Eden." 

Selaphiel never understood the purpose of the Garden of Eden. Two trees reside in the very center of the garden, fueling the rest of the garden. It sits on the planet, but it doesn't feel like it belongs. It's too perfect with plants and trees incapable of dying, and it belongs more to Heaven than to a flawed world like earth. 

Of course, the Garden of Eden, unlike Heaven, can nourish life whereas Heaven keeps everything in a form of everlasting stasis. 

"Does Heaven have an order for me?" 

"Not at the moment." 

Selaphiel is satisfied to stay with her in relative silence. Together, they watch the humans gather berries for their dinner. 

Raphael eventually goes, flying off without a warning. 

Selaphiel continues watching, a few of his eyes locked upon a human girl with what appears to be a glowing pearl in her hands. He isn't aware that these humans even know how to find oysters and nearly turns away when the pearl in her hands suddenly grows in size. 

That's not normal. 

He flies closer to watch out of curiosity.

She doesn't say a single word. Still, she holds the pearl in her hand. What is she thinking right now? What or why is she holding a pearl?

He flies even closer. Invisible, he hides from her view as she strangely drops the pearl to the ground. 

Then she leaves, rejoining her fellow humans. 

Selaphiel, once certain she will not return, picks up the pearl. He rolls it between his fingers, puzzled by its very existence. It's the size of an apricot with all the iridescent glow of a pearl grown by an oyster despite containing something  _ more  _ within. He holds it closer to his heart instinctively, his vision briefly taken over by something else. 

He sees the girl, a little bit older, with a boy. It's a simple life they lead together. They gather their food, and they laugh around a warm fire. A few children bring joy to their hearth. Selaphiel can feel his lips curl into a smile at these images. 

Then the images fade away, and Selaphiel frowns at the pearl cracking into pieces in his palm. It melts away like sand, splitting away into nothing. Selaphiel turns to the direction of the girl and decides to follow. He doesn't understand this at all, but he must have the answer. 

The girl and her family travel for miles, warm fur tucked around their shoulders. They wear shoes to cover their feet, and they eventually find themselves at a gathering of other humans. 

Selaphiel refuses to tear his eyes away from this scene. 

A family, some members crying and others with red-shot eyes, emerge from the trees. In the arms of the oldest human is a familiar boy. 

Dead. 

There's crying, and there's singing. Some humans light the body on fire, and more humans cry. Selaphiel barely notices any of it. Instead, he looks down at his palm, as if the pearl is still there. 

He is still trying to understand. 

He pays even more attention to humanity. If he looks closely, he can see a pearl inside every single human. Some have one, some have two, some have many more than they should bear, all contained in their very soul. They come in different sizes, colors, and shapes. Some humans seem to be aware of this pearl; others are not. Selaphiel would have asked another angel about these pearl-like objects if he found a chance. 

Instead, war breaks out. Selaphiel, who hasn't returned to Heaven in a long time, finds out the Creator hasn't been seen since putting Adam in charge of the Garden of Eden. He also finds out that several hundred of his brothers have been needlessly slaughtered by Lucifer. 

"We're officially at war," Raphael says, dressed like a soldier with a helmet over her head and three swords at her side. She even has a spear strapped between her wings, a hard expression like granite permanently set in her face. “We must defeat Lucifer and his horde of. . .” Her face wrinkles in disgust. “Devout followers.” 

“They’re humans.”

“Twisted humans,” Raphael corrects. “Make no mistake. Their souls have been twisted far beyond anything I have ever seen. Even I can't heal them. Lucifer must have been planning this for a long time.” A pause. “Did you notice anything?” 

Selaphiel doesn’t even blink. Why should he be surprised by this turn of questioning? Out of all the angels and the Heavenly Host, Michael and Selaphiel, to some extent, remain the closest to Lucifer that anyone knows of. Of course, no one saw it coming when some of the angels chose to follow Lucifer. He answers, “No, I did not.”

Raphael nods, seemingly believing his words. "Neither did Michael." 

In the worst of times, he finds some angels possess a pearl like the humans, both fallen and not alike. Though Selaphiel is a warrior unlike Ramiel, the Archangel of Justice, he stays out of the sidelines. He prefers not to get involved. Though he has, if ever, rarely seen his siblings, he feels the loss of each of them with a heavy pang in his heart. 

Then the Nephilims come and Michael issues a decree for angels to kill any Nephilims and potential carriers of Nephilims. It's cruel, but what business did angels even have with humans? One Nephilim, a son of Lucifer and stronger than the others, manages to slew dozens of Selaphiel's brothers before being taken by Gabriel. Gabriel ends up beating him up before throwing him into Purgatory. 

Lucifer gets sealed in his cage with his vessel destroyed, and the other fallen angels go along with him. But some choose to go to Purgatory to follow their children. 

Ezekiel, who has been a good soldier but joined Lucifer's side, begs to be sent to Purgatory instead. They all know that land is not meant for angels. But Ezekiel will not listen. 

"That land will make you progressively weaker and weaker," Raphael points out. "You will most certainly die in there." 

"I don't care. It's not about me. It's about my daughter," Ezekiel insists, chained. "She should not go in there alone." 

"She isn't alone. There are many Nephilims in there," the Archangel of Healing replies. 

Ezekiel sighs. Then he turns his eyes upon Selaphiel. "Please, Selaphiel. Please know that I hold nothing against Heaven. I only want to spend time with my daughter." A pearl glows inside of Ezekiel's chest. He pulls it out of himself and sighs again. "If you wish, I will fall to Hell and be locked away like the others." 

Raphael nods. 

"Wait," Selaphiel intones, the first he has during Ezekiel's trial. He steps forward and narrows his eyes. "What is it that you hold?" 

"This?" Ezekiel looks down, his face soft as he smiles, a break in his expression. "It's a rattle. Made out of wood." 

Selaphiel frowns. "It doesn't look like a rattle." It's most certainly not a rattle. It's a pearl, soft and glowing with a little bit of white light. A large one, perhaps one of the largest he has ever seen. About the size of a grapefruit. 

Raphael sighs. "It's a rattle." 

"It's my daughter's rattle. She used to use it during her developing years. Now she's an adult, but I still keep the rattle with me." 

"May I?" Selaphiel asks, reaching for the pearl. He feels its warmth, awed by how alive it feels compared to all the other pearls he has seen in the past. Like the others, he sees brief flashes of colors. He sees the girl, Ezekiel's daughter, live a small, quiet life on earth. She does not lead armies or fight to kill angels for Lucifer. She lives happily, her dreams and desires carried forth. And Selaphiel can't help but notice the pearl is cracking like all the others. Cracking slowly but surely. 

Ezekiel worriedly stares at Selaphiel. 

He hands it back to Ezekiel. Then he says, "Send him and the others into Purgatory. The ones who chose to go. That is my recommendation." 

Ramiel adds, "I feel that sending him to Purgatory is worse than imprisonment in Hell." 

The Archangel of Healing shuts her eyes, as if suffering through a migraine. "Ezekiel, do you choose to be locked away in Purgatory forevermore?" 

Without any hesitation, the angel answers, "I do." 

A few dozen angels, perhaps wanting to avoid Hell or perhaps possessing genuine affections for their children, join Ezekiel in Purgatory, the new prison for Nephilims. 

Selaphiel, with all sincerity, wishes them the best. 

Time moves forward, and gradually, Heaven repairs the damage sustained during the War. Statues of Lucifer get torn down, and they're replaced by the angels who died in the War. Selaphiel chooses to mourn his brothers before returning to earth. It's less painful here even though the planet bears some physical scars of the War. No angel has bothered to come down to repair. 

It doesn't matter. Nature is already erasing the scars. Nothing lasts forever here. 

A prayer, traveling across time and space, is heard by Selaphiel. Up in Heaven, a woman named Ruth begs to be reunited with her love. It takes some pleading and words to convince the archangel of taking her to Purgatory. It takes even longer to find Naomi, who has sequestered herself far from Purgatory's sole exit. By the time they're reunited, Selaphiel is weakened by the very place. He's cut off from Heaven, and he can't feel any other angels in this place. 

He doesn't need to ask whether or not Ezekiel and the others still live. He can't feel them on this plane. He can't sense their power, their grace. 

A few Nephilims take him to the exit. They're surprisingly not as angry as Selaphiel thought they would be. He does not ask about the pearls they carry within themselves as he crosses the barrier separating the exit from the rest of Purgatory. 

He finds the Garden of Eden. 

He is surprised by this. But why should he be? Ever since the fall of man, the Garden of Eden no longer possesses a guardian. It has been detaching from the earth and must have connected to Purgatory to survive. Selaphiel, finding the portal in the shape of a flat smooth pool, dives in, shivering at the sudden chill locked in the air. 

Hell. 

He should have dipped a finger into the water before diving in. Now he has to suffer through Hell to get out. 

He makes a few turns and sneaks past a few demons here and there. Perhaps he went the wrong way, because the next thing he finds is a cage seemingly made out of wood splints and fibers, the same material making up woven baskets. It’s large enough to contain an archangel with enough space for him to move about. The holes are tiny, perhaps enough for a human to slip through. 

But it's not made out of wood. It's made out of seals, bound hard enough by magic and celestial power. He can't get freed until there's a hole big enough to let him out just once. 

"Selaphiel," says the former Prince of Heaven. "So you came to my new home. To this pathetic cage." 

Selaphiel steps forward, eyes drinking in the sight of his brother. He's no worse for wear, but he can see where Michael has cut to destroy the vessel containing Lucifer's form. Those marks will be nearly impossible to erase. 

"You are going to stare at me forever or what?" 

"You only brought this on yourself," Selaphiel tells him. "I only have one question." 

"Go ahead." He laughs, claws spreading wide to gesture at the cage. "It's not as if I have anything else to do. The only interesting thing I have left is my whispers." 

Selaphiel pauses and then asks, "Why?" 

Though the question is simple, it's clear Lucifer understands. He steps closer to the cage's edge and says, shadows ripping across his face, "Why? I told Michael why not. I told him that I didn't care for Heaven. I told him that Heaven can rip itself apart and I wouldn't give a single thought of concern to it." He pauses, dark eyes flicking away from the Archangel of Hope. "But for you, I will tell you why." 

Selaphiel wonders if anyone has truly known Lucifer. But he stands quietly and waits, possessing no firm judgement towards his brother. 

"The Creator's last orders. I saw the Creator. Michael and Raphael were there as well. The last orders were to protect and guide humanity. I have no idea why we must protect these selfish, cannibalistic, filthy, disgusting creatures. We have watched that planet age for billions of years without meddling." He pauses in thought. "Almost without. The Nameless walks the planet every day." 

Selaphiel tilts his head. "I don't understand." 

"I am getting off-topic. The point is. . . Why do they deserve our assistance? Why do they need protection? Why do we need to guide them?" Lucifer shakes his head, his claws curling around a seal. "Why must we bow down to them?" 

"Because the Creator says so." 

"Because, because, because. Blah, blah, blah, blah. . . The Creator says this, the Creator says that. Who cares what the Creator actually thinks? Could have created a perfect world with no suffering to put these humans on and instead makes Heaven look after it and watch as they destroy their own home out of their own stupidity. We can do better than the Creator.  _ I  _ can do better than the Creator." 

Selaphiel steps back. "That's arrogant." 

"It's true." A pause. "It's not fair. Why should we devote so much time and effort to them? They're unworthy of anything," Lucifer replies, scowling in disgust. "Why don't the angels live out their own life? They spend their own time doing whatever they want instead of doing whatever they do that keeps Heaven running." 

Selaphiel says, "You mean curating Heaven? Protecting all the souls living within? It's good work." 

The devil snorts. "Work you don't do. You would rather be spending time on that planet watching a tree grow up." 

Selaphiel sighs. He turns away from his brother, not saying another word. Hell has grown far too unwelcoming for his tastes. 

When he finally gets out, he flies to earth and wanders. 

Selaphiel keeps finding pearls wherever he goes as humanity begins to spread all across the globe. He has witnessed brief clashes of armies, plagues, and the rise and fall of empires and kings alike. Nothing lasts forever here, and he supposes that is why he rarely returns home. 

Then time moves forward, humans gaining knowledge and developing more complicated tools. 

It's the day he returns to Heaven when he hears whispers of concern from the Nameless' reapers.  _ He has taken a mate. There may be a Nephilim born out of the union. He may fall like Lucifer.  _

But no one dares to walk right to his face and express their concerns. The scythe discourages much interactions with the Angel of Death. The seven archangels haven't heard about this transgression. Until now. 

With Michael's decree, there is no choice. There is no second option. The law is clear, and Selaphiel knows what must be done. 

The mate is the weak spot. He only needs to be removed. 

Selaphiel, despite the ever-growing distance between Heaven and himself, has no desire to see the Nameless fall. 

But there is one small hitch in the plan. 

He is tethered to the earth in a way no other mortal is. He's a witch, but he can't be truly killed. He will always be reborn until the cycle ends. Selaphiel remembers. He remembers the Nameless coming to him once regarding the witch’s family, eternally reincarnating until earth dies. And now. . .

He's unhappy with the way the angels merely watch in horror as they watch the couple reach relationship milestones rather than talk to the Nameless. It's as if they have lost their spines, but he understands why. 

No one wants another Lucifer. 

Selaphiel mulls over what words to say when he hears that Cassiel has heard what the Nameless has done. So he takes it upon himself before the other archangel can do something drastic and rash. 

From his perch, he watches from the distance, feeling distantly unsettled when the Nameless tumbles with the witch. It's not as if he has never seen humans and animals mating. But it's different when it's his own brother and it's even more different when it appears he genuinely cares for the witch, smiling broadly and glowing in the witch's presence. 

But he has to do this. 

It's necessary. 

A moment of rebellion from the witch, a moment of resistance. Then it's over, and the witch and the child he may carry one day is gone. 

Selaphiel steps forward, his head tilting in confusion when the pearl tucked close to the witch's heart doesn't appear to disappear. But he doesn't have time to examine it any further when the Nameless himself comes. 

He stands on the balcony, all of his eyes piercing. "What have you done?"

The Archangel of Hope inclines his head. 

"Selaphiel," the Nameless whispers. "Why?"

The archangel gathers himself, channeling Cassiel. "Because eventually, he will be with child. We know Nephilims can't be born. I will not see you fallen like the others."

"He's a witch."

Selaphiel knows Michael’s decree like the back of his hand. It has never accounted for the possibility that an angel may mate with a supernatural creature like a witch or werewolf. He’s certain that once Michael hears of this, the wording of the decree will be modified. "And what comes out of your union will be more powerful than a regular Nephilim. We know what happened the last time Nephilims existed. The Great War was fought over such matters. I don't want to see you like Lucifer, sitting alone in a cage and waiting for the Apocalypse with only the voice of demons for company."

"You don't understand, Selaphiel. What we have is pure. It's nothing comparable to when our brothers stole away the daughters and sons of man in rage and envy and lust." The Nameless’ voice is low, threatening. He’s a mere second away from pulling out his scythe to send Selaphiel to an early end. He has enough rage that he can probably crush the archangel like an insect. 

Still, the Archangel of Hope knows what needs to be said. He points at the omega and stoically informs, "This is a warning. The second time you come close to procreation, I'll strike faster than you imagine." 

The Angel of Death breathes in, all of his eyes wide and glaring at Selaphiel with pure hate. "If there is justice in this world, Selaphiel, then one day. . . One day, you'll understand my pain, the tearing of my heart, the loss of an unconditional, beautiful love. That's the price you'll pay for murder." 

He can feel the words wrap around his neck, choking him like a noose. But Selaphiel does not budge even as he feels a burn at his throat. He does not give into the urge to clutch at the burn. "He will come back," says Selaphiel, softening. "I know he will reincarnate. You won't resist him. But maybe you will think twice about mating."

Climbing onto the bed, the Nameless gathers the fallen witch into his arms. "So much for being the Archangel of Hope." 

It’s a dismissal. But Selaphiel doesn’t move. He stares at the glowing pearl within the witch’s heart, and his mouth unwittingly moves. "Perhaps there is an option for you both. Rapture. It'll probably break the magic, severing him from the rest of his family."

It’s a decent option. In Heaven, the witch, no matter how hard he tries, can’t get pregnant. No one would dare to speak against their relationship. They would be safe. Safe from Heaven, safe from angels, safe from Michael. 

But he tells him, "I can't possibly do that."

Selaphiel doesn’t understand. He tries, "Convince the witch who cast the reincarnation spell to remove it. You can have him in Heaven, and no one will dare to separate the two of you."

The Angel of Death doesn’t seem to be moved. "Any other options?"

He thinks hard. "Our Creator may consider helping. If you prayed for help." 

The other angel instantly dismisses, "We have not seen our Creator since the beginning of time. What is to say our Creator is not dead? You can leave, Selaphiel." 

Selaphiel doesn’t go. "There is one other option."

“Yes?” 

"The Apocalypse will deteriorate the state of this world. Eventually, everything here will be destroyed. Including the reincarnation spell. You can reunite with him in Heaven, live freely there,” he points out. 

The other angel doesn’t say anything. Instead, a single pearl falls from the Nameless’ heart and drops to the ground, unnoticed by the other angel. It rolls until it stops by Selaphiel's feet.

Without a verbal response, Selaphiel flies away, the tiny pearl clutched between his toes. 

Once he's far away from Japan, the first thing he does is examine the dulling pain at his throat. It's a brand of some form, some sort of bird in flight. It distantly reminds Selaphiel of the first time he has ever talked to the Nameless, that time they stood together to watch the passing of a feathered dinosaur. 

The second thing he does is examine the pearl. It’s a small, curious thing. Shiny with its inner glow. Rose-tinted. He wipes it with his thumb, and suddenly, a vision seizes him. A brief image of a girl with dark hair and magic dancing from her fingers. A brief image of a boy, having the best physical features of the Nameless and his mate, blowing a dandelion. 

A sad feeling takes Selaphiel’s heart. He places the pearl into his pocket, carrying it with him. Unlike the humans’ pearls, this one doesn’t break under his touch. 

He takes it upon himself to watch for Nephilims, passing forward a message to Heaven that he will monitor the situation and that Michael himself does not need to attend to the Nameless. 

And throughout the years, he grows accustomed to humanity. He blends in. He collects the shattered pearls humans throw away. He, like the Angel of Death, plays several parts while living among humans. For a moment in time, he's a teacher. Then he is a priest. For a while, he even hunted rogue supernatural creatures. 

He stumbles through the 19th century until he feels Lucifer's whispers rising in strength. The wheels of the Apocalypse have been turned into motion. It will take generations of humans to create a vessel that can contain Lucifer's form. 

Through it all, Selaphiel can't help but wonder when the curse shall strike. 

He revisits the site of Yuuri Katsuki's death, feeling the noose tightens around his neck. It takes a week for the Nameless to attend a three day medical conference that forces him to be away from Matsuura for at least an hour. 

Selaphiel takes advantage. He doesn't need that long. He only needs thirty minutes at the most. 

He glances around. The place has changed. Selaphiel, when he came a long time ago, destroyed half of the house. Of course, the Nameless would have done repairs to their home. 

He wanders the beach until he finds the person he's been looking for. 

Yuuri Katsuki, young as the day he died, floats across the sand with his eyes closed. Selaphiel ignores the warning growl from the hellhound dressed as a poodle. "I'm only here to talk to him." 

The hellhound growls again.  _ Ten minutes.  _

"Done." Selaphiel makes his approach until he stands within earshot. He doesn't expect the soul to react. He looks towards the sea, at the constant rise and fall of the waves. Then he begins to speak, uncertain of what to say. 

It's silly. It's not as if Yuuri Katsuki can even react. 

"Hello, Yuuri Katsuki,” the archangel says, staring at the poodle who sits down on the sand. "You don't remember me. I don't think you do. Not with the way the reincarnation spell is wrapped around your soul, not with the way. . . Azrael modified the spell." He nearly slips and calls him the Nameless, except he doubts that is the name the Angel of Death uses with Yuuri Katsuki. 

He pauses. 

"Over eight hundred years ago, maybe you remembered that moment, maybe you don't. . ." He continues, glancing at the dog who seemingly relaxes, "Death like that leaves a scar on a soul, and yours was especially violent when you threw every bit of your magic at me. You would have not survived that moment, even if you managed to kill me."

The poodle glares at him, as if remembering that very night. 

Turning his eyes back to the witch, Selaphiel continues, "Over eight hundred years ago, I killed you. I burnt out your eyes, and I ensured that no child will come out of your union with Azrael, your beloved who you call Victor. Orders are orders, and Michael's decree must be upheld. Do I believe we must prevent Nephilims? I don't know, for I do not understand their full power. One Nephilim, Lucifer's son who was named a rather poor name that deserves not to be mentioned, managed to slaughter dozens of my brothers. Angels. Perhaps they can be as powerful as an angel or perhaps not. We don't know, because we have locked away all the Nephilims, guilty or innocent, into Purgatory."

He thinks about all the Nephilims who were thrown into Purgatory, kicking and screaming as they went. Was it the right call? Who knows? 

"I came here, this place you can't see but has been your home for hundreds of years. I came here today to apologize." A pause. "And maybe I don't have pure desire to atone to you today. No, not completely. You won't notice until it's too late, but the end of times draw closer. Soon, your world will end and every single living being shall die. Your beloved, without a doubt, counts down every second until then." 

Selaphiel can see it happen so clearly. And he can see the world dying in flames with the Nameless uncaring of the fact. He pulls a small pearl out of his pocket and rolls the Nameless’ pearl between his fingers. 

"It will work. What I told him is true. The Apocalypse will break and corrupt your sister's reincarnation spell. Your connection to this world will be severed. Permanently. But there is one other thing. Your beloved's curse. It weighs on my chest. A murderer's brand. He won't let me forget what I've done. Not anytime soon. For the years I've taken away from you, he would ensure I will pay for it throughout eternity. I can feel the curse's time is nearing. Perhaps my heart will break when I see my brothers die in battle against Lucifer's forces."

Heaven, in the First War, bled with the blood of those who perished. What would happen in the Second War? 

He whispers, "I see dreams of people at times. Humans, vampires, witches, past and future kings. I offer you your beloved's hope. He dreams of raising a child, girl or boy, with you. He wants to see then grow up, he wants to take them to school. He wants to watch you hold them, he wants the best features of both of you to be in them. He hopes they have your eyes and your hair and your heart. I know he has denied himself this hope, squashed it down until only an unplanted seed remains in the bitterly cold depths of his heart, because he knows that as soon as it becomes reality, Michael and the angels will come down from Heaven to destroy you and your children. If they put their minds to it, then they might even break your sister's reincarnation spell and send you into Purgatory, a land where few dare to venture."

He rolls the pearl between his fingertips, seeing the brief flashes of the girl and the boy. Their children, Saki and Ren. 

With sincerity, he steps closer and says, "I regret killing you by revealing my true form to you. Perhaps, I could have convinced your beloved to have protected you by being cautious. There are a lot of things that could have happened, and I wished your beloved could turn back the clock and make it right, consequences be damned. But we live with our choices now. So the last thing I want to say to you today is this: I hope you get your happy ending."

He presses a finger against Yuuri’s forehead, finding it surprisingly warm despite his ghostly appearance. With his hand, he places the Angel of Death’s pearl with Yuuri's collection of pearls, of hopes and dreams, and he utters, “So blessed be." 

Without further ado, he steps away from the spirit of Yuuri Katsuki. The hellhound follows, quick at his heels. He gives little thought to it as he wonders in thought about the pearl and the decision he made today. It feels right. It feels as if he returned something to Yuuri, even though the pearl did not belong to him in the first place. 

And he feels lighter, as if his heart isn’t burdened as much. 

The hellhound continues following him to the outskirts of the Nameless’ property. 

Selaphiel pauses in his step, tilting his head in confusion. “Well, I’ve spent the time you have kindly allocated me. What do you want now?” 

The hellhound straightens, her nose upturned.  _ I give you one more concession. I won’t be telling Death a thing you said today.  _ Then she strolls away. 

The archangel shakes his head. But he makes no protest. 

Time passes by, flying away faster than ever possible. Decades after decades speed by, and Selaphiel can’t help but hear the ever-increasing tick of the clock. 

The noose around his neck tightens. 

It's an ice rink in East Germany that takes Selaphiel off autopilot mode. He has been living the years without ever living a single moment. A young boy drops his pearl after falling. No one else seems to notice as they skate around his fallen body. 

It rolls and lands by Selaphiel's skates. He bends down and picks it. Upon seeing no one else help the boy, he approaches and asks in German, "Are you alright?" 

The boy, who must be ten or eleven, shakes his head, sniffling. "I heard my grandma died." He fixes his beanie, though it does nothing to hide his unruly dark hair. 

Selaphiel knows the correct words to say. "I'm sorry for your loss." 

"Don't be," he says. "I didn't even know her." A pause. "She lives on the other side of the wall." 

Ah.

Selaphiel has to be blind and deaf to not notice the Berlin Wall. The security around the wall has fallen lax, but no one is allowed to cross. Selaphiel offers the pearl back to the boy, who shakes his head, still sniffling. 

"I don't want it anymore." 

The archangel raises an eyebrow, rolling the pearl in his palm. He has learned over the years that although he may see a pearl, humans do not. He has no ability to ascertain the object in his hands. "What is this?" 

"It's. . ." The boy looks down. "How do you not know what it is? It's so famous!" 

Selaphiel raises an eyebrow. "I don't read news," he lies. 

"The 1972 Olympics stamp! It's from West Germany." The boy's voice quiets, hushing. "How do you not know it? You look old enough to have seen the news about the massacre!" 

Selaphiel remembers that. "It slipped my mind." 

The boy shakes his head, but he takes the pearl off the archangel's hand. "I can't believe you don't know it." He pushes himself off the ice, and he stumbles slightly, but he doesn't fall. 

"What does it mean to you?" Selaphiel inquires. 

"Well." The boy slides, slowing. "It's just a stupid dream." 

"No dreams are stupid," the archangel says. "Dreams are only dreams until we put enough effort and will into them to make it reality." 

The boy squints, but he places the pearl into his jacket. "I want to go there." 

"To Munich? In West Germany?" 

"No." With his toe pick, he kicks the ice. "The Olympics. I want to figure skate." 

"So why don't you?" 

The boy shakes his head. "It's not that simple." 

"Then start somewhere. Plan as you go." Selaphiel turns his back, ready to wander again. 

"Wait." 

The archangel turns around again, raising an eyebrow. 

"What's your name?" 

Selaphiel is too strange of a name. Something like Michael or Gabriel can easily slip by the humans. Centuries ago, Selaphiel merely opened a book of names and selected something simple and easy to write. "Otabek." 

"You're not from around here," the boy notes. 

The boy is keener than the archangel expected. 

"Is that obvious?" 

"No. You blend in at first glance. But you're not German at all." He glances down at his skates and tells him, "I'm Anton. I want to skate at the Olympics one day." The pearl in his pocket glows. 

Selaphiel ends up staying in East Germany a lot longer than he expected. Anton proves to be resilient and determined at keeping his promise. He copies the older skaters at the rink, and he tries many jumps despite the risk of falling. He easily learns how to make figures in the ice, every step and glide deliberate. Though he has no coach or official trainers, one of the wealthier skaters at the rink takes pity on him and teaches him how to properly jump. 

The archangel wants to laugh. It appears as if Anton has swallowed a sour grape, but he forces himself to learn anyway. There's no one else who could teach him. 

It takes three years of skating in his free time and on weekends for someone to finally notice him. A skating coach, who was once a former figure skater, takes him under his wing. 

Sometimes, when Anton thinks no one is watching, he pulls out his pearl, which is really a stamp from the 1972 Summer Olympics, and clutches it tightly in his hands. It grows in size, feeding upon Anton's offering. 

Selaphiel sometimes wonders if these pearls are parasites. 

After that, he doesn't check in upon Anton as frequently. He has other humans he occasionally watches, and he continues his habits of picking up pearls, though he never understands why he is compelled to do so. 

Four years later, he discovers that Anton narrowly misses the spot on the 1988 Olympic team for East Germany. Matured and prepared after more relentless years of training, he nabs a spot on the 1992 Olympic team for Germany. 

Selaphiel attends. He hasn't seen the German in many years, but he personally attends, buying a ticket for a seat decently close to the ice. The male figure skaters are currently practicing, but he takes his eyes off them when his neighbor accidentally jostles her drink, spilling it all over the floor. 

"Otabek!" A deep voice calls out. 

The archangel turns his head, surprised to see the German figure skater waving at him from the rinkside. After a moment of hesitation, he stands up and approaches the athlete. 

A security guard holds up his palm, stepping forward. In english, he says, "Please do not approach the ice." 

"Hey, he's a friend of mine," Anton says, sounding offended on Selaphiel's behalf. At the unamused look in the other man's eyes, he sighs. "How about three minutes? I can use a pep talk with my friend." 

"Three minutes," the guard repeats. "Only." He steps away, as if to give an illusion of privacy. 

"You haven't aged a bit," Anton comments, bewildered. "I saw you like ten years ago. Kind of thought you were a dream." 

"I'm not. I'm real. I heard you got on the Olympic team." 

"Yeah, I did." The figure skater smiles. Then he bends down to his skates and removes a large pearl, about the size of a watermelon from his sock. It doesn't seem heavy at all, yet Selaphiel takes it from the skater with both hands. "I want you to have this." 

Selaphiel blinks in confusion. "But this is yours?" 

"It was my good luck charm for the last ten years," Anton says. He glances back at the other skaters. "I don't need it anymore." 

"But you're at the Olympics." 

"Yeah." And he smiles at that. "You are here. Without you, I wouldn't be here today. I would have not believed that I could be here." 

Over the speakers, an announcement warns that practice time is now over, and all skaters must clear the ice. It's repeated in several languages. 

Anton nods at Selaphiel. "It's now time for me to show the world what I can do." Skating away, he does not look at his pearl. 

Anton doesn't skate until after an American and a Canadian. He has big shoes to fill if he wants to medal and even bigger if he wants to beat the Ukrainian, who skates under a flag that belongs to no nation. 

He takes the center of the ice. 

Selaphiel rolls the pearl in his hands, clutching in anticipation. He leans in, watching. He hasn't seen him skate in a long time.

The music begins, a classical piece written by Beethoven and performed by a German orchestra. Anton's very movements remain fierce, exhilarating with emotions. Expressive and determined. Black hair sweeps with his motions. 

And Selaphiel can feel it. He can feel the dreams of this figure skater, taking the ice and setting forth on the world stage. He rolls the pearl in his hands, and he speaks quietly, "Now is the time for you to take center stage. The whole world is waiting for you. . ." 

Anton clears a triple flip with ease, his hands raised high. He slips into his next sequence, dancing to the music on blades. 

"Don't forget what it is you want. Now is the time to take off. Fulfill your dream. Only you can make it reality." 

The figure skater performs a sort of leap that meshes into a sit spin that sends the crowd applauding. 

Selaphiel puts the large pearl close to his mouth, almost as if praying. "Live your life. Dance your dream. Sing, sing. . . Sing your own song." 

The music slows dramatically, and Anton slips into another spin, a camel that is executed quickly with a jump to switch legs. 

"Do to the fullest, play to the fullest, and discover. Find your path, and go above and beyond it! Now is your beginning. Live your own life. Now is your beginning! This is your time!" 

Anton spins out, hitting a pose at the last note, his hand reaching towards the sky for something greater. 

The lady sitting next to Selaphiel turns and comments in German, "You're a big fan of him, aren't you?" 

"I am." 

"I hope he wins. But it is just as good to see him skate on the world stage," she says. "He really has a way of skating." 

Selaphiel nods absentmindedly. But he's not really paying attention to the woman. Instead, he's staring at the pearl in his hands, bewildered. The pearl, instead of cracking like all the others he has seen, is dissolving into white dust. They travel towards Anton, who waves and smiles at the crowd with flowers in his arms. 

Another pearl in his chest glows, new and tiny. 

A tiny slip of paper is held in between Selaphiel's fingers. It's a used stamp. 

The lady leans in. "1972 Summer Olympic stamp. Real tragic what happened there. Not cheerful as we hoped it would be. But it was a great game despite the lives lost." 

"Yeah." 

Selaphiel stands up, watching Anton take his bow once more. He places the used stamp into his pocket and then he leaves the skating rink. 

Even more time passes by, but the most important date approaches. 

The antichrist is a landmark in the story of the Apocalypse, and the birth of him is something greatly anticipated by Lucifer's supporters. Heaven can't give any less of a thought to him, but Selaphiel is curious. He wants to see the vessel that will carry his brother and allow Lucifer to fight in the final battle.

It takes weeks of preparation as he adopts an identity and quickly learns the procedures at the hospital. As a nurse in the hospital, one of the wards he must attend to is the labor room. And on that particular day, Yulia Plisetsky is checked in by the paramedics, her baby premature. 

He slides into her room before his colleagues can. He wants to see this. He verifies information he already knows and asks for contact information. 

"His father. The baby's father," she mumbles, sweating and wincing out of pain on the hospital bed. "Sergei Petrovich. I have his number on my phone." 

Selaphiel makes the call, and the man comes several hours later with a demon in tow. 

He makes himself small, his true form tucked away even tighter. He doesn't want the demon to notice him. She might become suspicious and report back to her supervisor. He continues his tasks and cleans a hospital bed and replaces the sheets with fresh ones. 

Then he returns to Yulia Plisetsky's room. A doctor is in there, rambling on about options and pushing for a cesarean section, but the patient isn't paying attention. She glances away from the demon, eyes occasionally flicking back out of fear. Her face is deathly pale. 

The C-section is picked, and Selaphiel unlocks the wheels. He rises up, pushing the bed towards the surgery room. Alone in the large elevator with Yulia Plisetsky, he stands by her side so she wouldn't feel so alone. 

She grips his wrist, eyes wide with fear. "Don't let that creature take my baby." 

Selaphiel doesn't know what to say. "The nanny?" 

"Yes!" Yulia shakes her head. "Please don't let her take him. Please." She whispers, "There's something wrong about her." 

He decides to play ignorant. "I'm certain your baby will be in good hands." 

"No!" She blinks, as if surprised by her own outburst. She pushes aside her sweaty blonde hair. "No. He can't. He won't be." 

The elevator doors open to the wrong floor. Selaphiel nods at the doctors waiting him off and pushes the button for their floor again. "Ms. Plisetsky, I must ask you to relax as much as possible." 

"I can't relax with that monster. She's not human!" The patient panics at the lack of response from the archangel. She removes her death grip and squeezes her hands together. "Please, God, don't let my Yura be with her. Please. A good life with many years to come. Please. That's all I ask. That's all I hope for." 

Hope. 

One time, Selaphiel opened up a dictionary to view humanity's definition of hope. To this day, he barely understands the concept of what he is supposed to protect. He doesn't even understand why the Creator charged  _ him  _ with hope. If it's something like justice or healing, he knows he can execute it fully without fail. 

Hope, from Merriam-Webster Dictionary, is “desire accompanied by expectation of or belief in fulfillment.” It’s “someone or something on which hopes are centered.” It’s “something desired or hoped for.” 

Today, he doesn't question hope nor wonder at its fragility. He does not compare hope to the delicate bones of a bird's wings. He does not wonder if humanity has confused hope for miracles. 

He grasps Yulia Plisetsky's hope in his hands, marveling at its size. She has spent a lot of herself and gave bits of her heart into her hope, her pearl. It rests in his palms, bigger than a grapefruit. It's warm and iridescent, pulsing with its own beat. 

She can’t carry it much longer. 

But he can. Like what he has done with his brother’s pearl. 

“This is my father’s wedding ring. I want him to have it some day,” she murmurs, relaxing. “Please take care of it.” 

Selaphiel nods. “What’s his name? Your son’s name?” 

“Yuri,” she answers. She smiles, exhausted. “Yuri Plisetsky.” 

The archangel marvels at her complete trust in him. “But how can you be so sure that I will take care of your son?” 

“Cause you’re an angel,” she replies, her voice faint. “That’s why.” 

Selaphiel does not have the heart to tell her that one day, a different kind of angel will want her son for his body. If he is clever enough, if he hides him well enough, then perhaps that fate will never fall to Yuri Plisetsky. 

But he’s getting ahead of himself. 

Yuri Plisetsky is born premature. He needs an incubator to survive, but the archangel needs to do the switch now while no one is paying attention. No, everyone is far too much attending to Yulia Plisetsky’s dying body and her severe internal bleeding, the rapidly dropping oxygen level. 

A teenage girl is also giving birth in the labor room. She surrenders her premature baby to Selaphiel, shaking her head with tears. Selaphiel, who knows the procedure for this process, retrieves a death certificate instead. He signs it off and switches the babies, lifting the antichrist out of the incubator. It's labeled Ivan Petrovich, and Selaphiel feels no small amount of guilt for doing this. 

By saving one baby, he is damning another. 

Selaphiel, like all angels, possess some healing powers. Raphael has the best of them all, capable of recreating limbs down to the last atom. He breathes for Yuri Plisetsky, whose lungs aren't developed enough to breathe on his own. He heals and accelerates his growth until he is as big as any 9 month old baby. 

There's a lot of paperwork to fill out. The archangel would have to create a fake body or find a real body to explain the death certificate. He would need to leave a paper trail that looks so genuine no one would dare questioning it. He would need to figure out the logistics of taking care of a baby. 

He would need to learn how to take care of a baby. He has never done this before. 

But he has never been this impulsive either. 

How is he going to find time to care for the baby when he goes to certain places no child should go? To Myanmar? To Iran? To Afghanistan? To the war torn nations and the grimy, dusty places where hope is frequently lost? 

But he does not dwell on these thoughts for too long. He can figure it out as he goes along. Selaphiel takes a moment to fix the baby's blanket. He carefully holds the baby's head, staring at the sleeping child. 

There's a grim dark future people want him to fulfill. There are dozens of milestones he must hit to be a true antichrist. Abaddon, the demon charged with his care, would feed him with demon blood for years until he's too old for it. His father would fall in love with the demon, but would eventually be killed by his own son as part of the initiative. He will help the breaking of the seals keeping the fallen archangel imprisoned. One day, Lucifer would come to him to ask for his body and he would say yes. One day, he and Michael will fight to the death, destruction and death a scorched trail they leave behind. 

If Selaphiel plays his cards right, this would not be the future for this child. 

_ Please. A good life with many years to come. Please. That's all I ask. That's all I hope for. _

The baby opens his eyes, a jolting shade of green. 

With Yulia Plisetsky's hope tucked close to his heart, archangel reaches for a bottle of formula, and he whispers, "Hello, Yura." 


	9. Selaphiel II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercy by Muse

Selaphiel is glad he does not need sleep as he attends to the baby at four o'clock in the morning, the third time all night. He's not sure how humans have managed to do this for years, feeding and changing the baby repetitively. 

In the meantime, he frequently pulls out Yulia Plisetsky's hope, the pearl playing between his fingertips. A ring that was her father's. It makes Selaphiel wonder if she has any other family. It's something he must consider especially with the upcoming order from Heaven. He can't bring the baby with him to New York City. His brothers will ask too many questions. 

"Bek, bek, bek," babbles the antichrist, rolling over in his crib. Chubby hands wave at the archangel. "Bek, bek, bek." 

"I know." Selaphiel puts away the pearl before Yura gets the bright idea of swallowing it. "I'm coming." 

The idea stays with him, however. Surviving family members. A sibling or a cousin. Maybe even Yulia Plisetsky's mother may still be alive today. Yura deserves to know them. 

Selaphiel does not have any connections to earthen databases that may list Yulia Plisetsky's relatives. He does have something better. With Yura bundled up and strapped to his back, he sneakily flies to Heaven and finds his way down to the Archives. It's officially a record of every single human that has lived and that is still living. It's similar to the magic residing in the Nameless' hands, the names of the deceased appearing in books. Or in scrolls. Or on computers. The Archive is perfectly formatted to the preferences of the visitor. 

He types in Yulia Plisetsky's name and finds out that she is the only child. Her mother recently passed away, but her father is still alive. He lives in Russia, and Selaphiel mentally memories the address just in case. 

"Selaphiel!" A voice calls out. 

The archangel freezes, his very heartbeat pausing. He turns his head, and his wings rise slightly in greeting, ruffling. "Michael." He hopes he does not appear too suspicious. 

Michael, in the form of a Chinese man who is athletic and broad like a swimmer around the shoulders, squints. "Is that a baby?" 

Yuri, who doesn't understand the delicate predicament they're in, babbles, as if to confirm to the General of Heaven that he is indeed a baby. "Bek, bek, bek!" 

"Hmm." Michael raises an eyebrow. "Why do you have a baby?" The archangel steps around Selaphiel and grabs a chubby hand. "Huh, he's a true cutie." In the weirdest turn ever, he coos, "Yes, you are. Yes, you are!" 

With his back turned to Michael, Selaphiel has to give everything he has not to react. "Babysitting my neighbor's baby." 

"Oh," Michael nods. "He's going to grow to be a real heartbreaker." A pause as the General, the gruff rigid personality, comes back. "You got New York handled?" 

"I do." 

"Good, good." Michael nods again and says, "You should come home more often, Selaphiel. We don't see you around that frequently." 

"I'm busy collecting the lost hopes of humanity," he says, hoping he sounds quite official. It's technically true, but he hasn't been able to collect as many pearls as before he kidnapped the baby from the hospital. It's probably not as noticeable as the time Ramiel decided to go on vacation in Australia and had a drawn-out problem with the local population of emu. He hopes.

"You do good work," Michael says, smiling slightly. "I was hoping I can get some volunteers to go into Purgatory." 

Selaphiel blinks, his heart missing a beat. He thinks of Ruth and hopes that no one found her missing from Heaven. "Yes? What for?" 

"I need someone who does not possess much interactions with Nephilims to conduct a census of the population." A brief flash of pain crosses the Prince's face. "Someone likable. Preferably not Gabriel or Raphael or Cassiel but someone strong enough to get in and get out. We both know Ramiel can't do it." 

Selaphiel shakes his head, already thinking of the baby strapped to his back. "I believe I am needed in New York soon." 

"It doesn't have to be right now. It can be conducted in a year or so." 

"Why not get Uriel?" 

“Uriel needs to manage Hell,” Michael points out. "He can't be pulled away from his work, and neither can be Azrael." 

“And Raguel?” 

“Busy as well.” A pause. “She has told me that she may have kicked a few Nephilims in the face on the way to Purgatory. Like what Gabriel has done.” 

Being a pacifist can really bite, Selaphiel concludes. He nods at his oldest brother and says, "I won't be able to do it until next year." 

"No problem. I doubt the population in Purgatory would have changed much," Michael replies, now cheerful that Selaphiel has agreed to the job. A pause, and he asks, "Have you heard anything from the Creator?" 

Selaphiel is taken aback by the question. "No, why? Have you heard something?" 

"No. It's just that we have been walking down the path for the Apocalypse and following the plans yet. . ." He sighs. "I've heard nothing." 

"What about. . ." Selaphiel looks around, relieved to find the three of them alone. "What about the Darkness?" 

"Him?" 

"He is primordial. Wouldn't he know something about the Creator?" 

Michael ponders, taking in the archangel's words. "Perhaps. But I haven't seen him since the War." He shakes his head. "No matter. We will carry on as planned." Michael steps away, his white tracksuit growing smaller and smaller until he's gone from view. 

Selaphiel pulls off Yura and glances at him. "That was far too close." 

The baby giggles, unapologetic. 

He leaves Heaven soon after. He would rather not invite any further questions from anyone about the baby. He nearly had something like a heart attack when Michael inquired about Lucifer's vessel. 

Although he is tempted to try to enroll Yura into a daycare while he works, he does not trust the humans. He is deeply afraid that they may accidentally switch him or take him away. So finding Nikolai Plisetsky has become the priority. The grandpa, approaching his sixties, lives in a small apartment by himself. 

He, at first, does not believe Selaphiel. Not until the archangel shows him the shadows of his wings, which is not bright enough to permanently damage the human. 

"Dear God," Nikolai breathes in Russian, slowly sitting down on his couch at this revelation. "Angels are real?" 

"Yes. So are demons." 

"You. An archangel." 

"Yes." 

"An archangel. You." 

Selaphiel wonders if he has accidentally broken Nikolai or caused some sort of psychological damage. He's about to press his index finger to the human's temple to check when Nikolai slaps it away. 

"I'm not. . ." He shakes his head, staring at the black television. "I think I need more time understanding this," he finishes weakly. He buries his face in his hand. "You are an archangel, yes?" 

Selaphiel feels as if they have talked about this no less than five times already, but he nods anyway. "Yes. I am an archangel. One of the seven remaining." 

Technically, there are other archangels, but they have fallen like Lucifer. Or they died in the War. 

"Okay. . . And you say you have my grandson, because he would be possessed by the devil one day?" He blinks, almost appearing as if he has aged ten years in the last hour. 

"Yes." 

The man nods, absorbing Selaphiel's answer. He lifts his face out of his palm. "And you also say that you have taken away my grandson from his father's care at the request of my daughter?" 

He confirms, "I do." He frowns and adjusts his arm, carefully moving to not disturb Yura. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out Yulia Plisetsky's hope and raises it in front of the man's face. 

In astonishment, he whispers, "That's my ring." 

"She told me it was yours and that she would want Yura to have it one day." Selaphiel hands it to the man, who clutches the pearl tightly around his hands. "She wanted him to have a long life. Far away from the influence of a demon." 

Nikolai Plisetsky raises his head up completely, pulling off his cap. In a gruff voice, he reveals, "I was going to report you for kidnapping my grandson. But I'm not going to." He pauses. "I want to know why. Why now? Why do you choose to help?" 

"Do you believe in miracles?" 

Nikolai Plisetsky shrugs. "I only know that miracles need effort. They need will, and they need something more. Otherwise, it's merely a wish." 

"Then consider this a wish," Selaphiel says. 

Nikolai holds out Yulia Plisetsky's pearl. "Here. Keep it safe for him." 

The archangel slowly takes it back. "Wouldn't you want it? It was yours." 

He shakes his head. "My daughter entrusted it to you. You keep it until her son is old enough to have it." 

Selaphiel nods, placing the pearl into his pocket. 

Nikolai sighs and stares at the baby in the archangel's arms. "What's his name?" 

Selaphiel adjusts the blanket. "Your daughter named him Yuri Plisetsky. She called him Yura." 

"May I hold him?" 

The archangel slowly passes the baby to the man. His arms feel strangely bereft without the familiar weight of little Yura. With nothing else to do, he pulls the diaper bag off his shoulder and rearranges the bottle's cap. Then he returns his attention to Nikolai Plisetsky and his grandson, who is staring with his eyes open wide out of curiosity. 

The grandpa laughs in wonder. "His eyes are so big." 

Selaphiel smiles. "According to some people, it means he will be a true heartbreaker when he grows up. Big eyes." 

A pause. 

Then the human asks, "But why do you come to me now?" 

"I need a guardian for him. As an archangel, I can't be with him all the time." Selaphiel pauses and further explains, "Something bad is going to happen, and I need to be there for weeks. I can't watch a baby, unfortunately." 

"Right now?" Nikolai seems to grasp the situation fairly quickly, now over the fact that angels and archangels exist. "I can most certainly assist. School is thankfully out, and I am not needed until August." 

Selaphiel hesitates. 

"What is it?" 

"I may need to be gone for years." 

Nikolai blinks at that. "I'm willing to step up. He's my blood. He's my grandson." 

"I will ask that you be relocated with a different name." At the alarm in the man's eyes, Selaphiel quickly adds, "As a precaution. I don't expect demons to know that Yura is gone and out of their reach right now, but they may start hunting down his family members if they suspect he might be in their care. You must also be cautious that Yura is not seen by anyone." 

Nikolai slowly nods. "You said relocated?" 

"I did." 

"To where?" 

Selaphiel shakes his head. "I'm not certain. Preferably, it is a place of high population so it won't be difficult for the two of you to blend in." A pause. "So you speak any languages other than Russian?" 

Some English turns out to be the answer. It gives a few other options on the table, and Selaphiel thinks about the United Kingdom or perhaps the United States. The US is perhaps better due to its size compared to the other options on the table like Australia, New Zealand, and Canada. But in the end, the decision is up to Nikolai. 

The man comes up with the answer in late August. He slowly rocks the crib and says, "My daughter went to America for work. I think it would be nice to go there." 

Selaphiel nods. "I will set up everything." 

"Everything?" Nikolai tilts his head. "What do you mean by everything?" 

"Paperwork, identification, citizenship, a new home to live in. A long trail of history for your new identities so no one would ever suspect you weren't who you claim you are." 

"Is it a lot of work?" 

"No." Selaphiel thinks not. It does take a while to sneak in and out of the government buildings or to steal a deceased baby's social security number, but he can get it together. He has to get it all together. "I won't be around in September." 

"Why?" 

"Heaven has its orders." 

Nikolai looks vaguely worried. But he asks, "If I need help, if the demons actually find me, how do I contact you?" 

Selaphiel frowns at that, but he requests, "Give me your phone." Once he has the man's mobile, he puts in his phone number as a new contact. "I will not leave you defenseless." 

The human pales. "Do you mean you want to give me some sort of weapon? I've never been great with my coordination, Selaphiel." 

"No, I have some sigils that will prevent demons from walking into certain areas. It will help defend you and Yura from demons, but it needs to be reapplied consistently, like every two weeks or so. Maybe less frequently for some other ones." 

"I'll do it," Nikolai instantly replies. "Teach me." 

It takes two whole weeks for Nikolai to understand the subtle twists and turns of the Enochian sigils, but when Selaphiel leaves for New York City, he feels as if he has left Yura in capable hands. 

In the midst of chaos and death, he greets the other angels who are here to work. Some of them, the reapers, are here to gather the souls their boss haven't gotten to yet. He's quite thankful that the Nameless is not participating. He's not sure how he can even look at him in the eye. 

Ever since Selaphiel has been literally burned by the Nameless' active curse, no angel has ever suggested they do anything when Yuuri Katsuki inevitably marries the Nameless life after life, years after years. No one wants to feel the pain as Selaphiel will one day feel, but it still doesn't stop angels from gossiping away behind the Nameless' back.

And with no Nephilim born out of their union, Michael and Cassiel and the rest of the archangels are happy with Selaphiel and feel no need to issue a celestial smiting of biblical proportions. 

The rest of the month of September does not go by fast enough. It's strange, he supposes. He has lived eternities without ever blinking an eye, but when time matters, he can feel how slow it becomes. 

The very moment he is released from the New York team of angels, he dodges Gabriel, who is already blabbering about Michael's census of Purgatory. He waves the messenger off, and once certain Gabriel is not following him, Selaphiel flies towards Russia and right into Nikolai Plisetsky's apartment. 

He's surprised to find that Yura has grown a bit bigger. He shouldn't be. It's not as if humans stay the same forever and always, never aging and changing. He turns his head away from the crib, finding Nikolai Plisetsky snoring in the rocking chair. The old man's face is partially hidden by a black hat. 

Selaphiel shakes his head, but he moves towards the kitchen to pull out a stack of real estate flyers. Then he opens the refrigerator and mulls over the question of what to make for Nikolai, who seems incredibly tired. The archangel knows that he has officially retired earlier this month, but caring for Yura is quite a handful. 

Footsteps pull Selaphiel back into reality. He gently shuts the fridge and turns around. "Have you eaten dinner yet?"

Nikolai laughs, pulling a seat out at the kitchen island. "No, he has the same schedule as his mother. Sleep at random times. Wake up at random times. What time is it even?" 

"Seven in the evening." 

The man wipes at his face. "I finally got a nap that lasted longer than two hours. Hopefully, he will sleep for another hour and will grant us some moment of peace." 

Selaphiel nods and walks over to the table. He pushes the stack of flyers towards the human and says, "These are some housing options. I thought a house in a residential area would be the best." 

Nikolai nods thoughtfully. "I agree. It would give him plenty of space to run around, so he doesn't have to be trapped all day in an apartment. Did you have any favorites?" 

"I can tell you which house looks the best both exterior and interior," Selaphiel offers. "But functionality is not something I can tell." 

The man reaches towards the stack and blinks at the top flyer. "This is in English." 

"Yes, the house is located in Maine." 

Nikolai runs a thumb under the price. He stammers out, "This is too much for a house." 

"It's in a good area," Selaphiel explains. "Quiet, good school nearby. Don't worry about the price. All of these houses are within the price range." 

"Angels have money?" Nikolai asks, bewildered. 

"I worked some jobs over the years, but I have never spent any of it except for Yura," he says, smiling slightly. "Like I said before. Don't worry about the price." 

The man slowly nods, accepting the fact. He shifts through the flyers, forming two different piles. The archangel guesses one to be a no pile whole the other is a maybe pile. The more Nikolai goes through the stack, the more of a pattern the archangel sees. He prefers homes that are single story with a decent yard. No swimming pool. He likes fences and doesn't care for the size of the garage. 

Nikolai pauses at one flyer, his thumb brushing against the roof of a house. He points to the garden of rose bushes and inquires, "Can I see these houses in person?" 

Selaphiel nods. "Of course." 

"I prefer not to have a second story," the man says. "My knees aren't doing too good, you see." 

The archangel interrupts, "You should have mentioned that earlier. I could have helped." Reaching out with his index finger, he asks, "May I?" 

"Please." 

With a touch, Selaphiel senses the partially ripped meniscus and mends it easily, ordering the atoms and the cells to knit itself once more. He pulls his hand back and says, "I also fixed your knee, so you have a little more cartilage. It should stop the pain." 

Nikolai sets down the flyer and instantly stands up, walking a few steps experimenting. He mutters, "Amazing." A pause. "I torn my knee a long time ago in my thirties while playing basketball with the children after school. It has never been quite the same." 

"It's a difficult injury to heal," Selaphiel says. "Especially on its own and even with medical assistance." 

"They put me on pain killers. I try not to use too much. I had good days and bad days with the knee." Nikolai sits back down, grinning. "Thank you, my friend." He relaxes, stretching out his legs experimentally. 

The archangel inclines his head. 

Yura is two years old when Nikolai finally narrows down his choices to just three. A house away from much of society in Washington. A house by the sea in California. A house on the outskirts of the city in Illinois. 

"They're all good options," Selaphiel points out. "But you must choose. They won't be on the market forever." 

The man wipes at his face, gently patting at the applesauce Yura accidentally burped into his face. After a moment of staring into the kitchen sink, he softly inquires, "Which one is the cheapest?" 

"Money is not the issue." 

"Which one?" 

"The one in Illinois, United States." 

The man nods. “Then buy that one.” 

With a large check written out from a Swiss bank account, it doesn’t take long for the purchase of the house to be finalized. Under Selaphiel’s watch, the house undergoes remodeling, so it would better suit Yura and Nikolai. The carpets are changed to floorboards, because they’re easier to clean and will last longer. Then another week is spent airing out the house, all the windows opened to lessen the smell of construction and wood shavings. 

It takes many flights between Russia and America to move all of Plisetsky's worldly possessions. Even as Selaphiel arranges the furniture and other objects to Nikolai’s liking, the man shakes his head. 

“It’s such a big house, you know,” he says, muttering under his breath. “It doesn’t feel like home.” 

“Not yet,” the archangel replies, watching Yura explore his new room. He smiles as Yura slowly stands up and shakily examines the closet doors. “It will be home soon enough.” 

Nikolai nods. 

“There’s something I forgot to ask.” Selaphiel tears his eyes away from the toddler. “Do you need a car or some sort of transportation?” 

“I’ve never driven a car in St. Petersburg,” Nikolai admits. “You buying me a car wouldn’t do anything. It would only sit in the garage. I feel more comfortable walking and biking.” 

“I can get a bike,” Selaphiel offers. 

Three days of shopping around finds a perfect bike for the Russian man. The archangel even purchases a bike trailer so Yura could safely ride along with Nikolai. 

Selaphiel passes forward some bank details and information about last year's taxes to ensure Nikolai has the means and tools to take care of the two of them without needing to take a job. 

"What do you mean that my apartment is still being leased? Isn't that wasting money?" 

Though Nikolai has learned to accept the bank accounts and financials of Nick Perry, he still dislikes the idea of wasting a single cent. Selaphiel thinks that frugal habits might have come from the Soviet days, but he doesn't ask and Nikolai doesn't offer. 

He explains, "It is to throw off the demons or anyone who comes to look for you. For all anyone knows, it's that you have retired from your work and became a recluse for many years. At some point, I will have a death certificate drawn out in your name." 

"Oh," Nikolai faintly says. "I didn't realize it would be that extensive." 

The archangel nods. "There is one more thing I need to show you before I leave for Purgatory." 

"Yes?" 

Selaphiel reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hand-drawn sigil on a slip of square white paper. "This is my calling card." 

"Calling card? How do I even use it?" 

"You have to draw it out the exact way on a flat surface, but I will be able to hear you briefly for a moment. I would say I can hear you for about two minutes at most." It would be longer if Nikolai had a sacrifice of some sorts, but Selaphiel doesn't want to make it excessively complicated for the man. He already has enough on his plate. He doesn't need more details. 

"When do I use it?" 

"In case of emergency," Selaphiel answers. "So I can get to you two as soon as possible. Where I'm going doesn't have cell reception." 

Nikolai nods, sticking the sigil to the fridge with a magnet of a small butterfly. Then he slowly starts, "I know angels do not need nourishment. . ." 

"Yes?" 

He pulls the door open and retrieves a brown paper bag. "But Yura and I made you something to eat while you're in Purgatory." 

Surprised, the archangel takes the bag and peeks inside, his eyes widening at the bronze-colored stuffed buns. He exclaims, "Pirozhki!" 

Nikolai nods in confirmation. "Good luck." Though the human has only been affectionate with little Yura, he pulls Selaphiel into a hug, the paper bag wrinkling in between. "Please come back safely." 

"I will," the archangel promises. Once he slips out of Nikolai's hug, he flies fast, distance and space changing before him. 

He skims across the Atlantic Ocean, a portal opening up ahead of him. It's a jagged line, a crack in the foundation of reality that is briefly exposed by Selaphiel's will. When he slips through the tiny orange fissure, the door closes behind him and Purgatory opens up, gaping underneath his feet. 

The large lake, shadows undulating underneath the surface, comes into his view, and Selaphiel lands right by four monsters surrounding a familiar Nephilim. Summoning celestial energy to kill, he calls for the monsters to be banished. 

I am Selaphiel, the Archangel of Hope, the collector of hopes and dreams. Begone. 

The archangel draws back his celestial power, folding it back into himself. He descends onto land, appearing in front of the Nephilim, who has his eyes shut. 

"You can open your eyes now." 

The bald man does, blinking. His mouth parts in shock. "Holy. . . Why are you here again?" 

Selaphiel raises an eyebrow. "You didn't expect me?" 

The Nephilim puts away his sword, stowing it away into a smaller form. Josef raises his hand at their surroundings, at the grim atmosphere. "I didn't expect you to come back. For eternity. I thought you were going to drop Ruth off and call it a day." 

"I'm on a mission from Heaven." 

Josef wrinkles his nose out of disgust at the mention of Heaven, but he doesn't say anything. "Are they thinking of finally killing us all?" 

The archangel pauses at that theory. "I don't think so, but now. . . I'm having second-guesses about what I'm doing here." 

Silence. 

Then the Nephilim bites. "So what exactly are you doing here?" 

"A census." 

"A what?" 

Selaphiel patiently explains the concept of the census, and he even pulls out a black backpack with all the forms. He feels slightly ridiculous, but he explains, "Apparently, it's one of the administrative goals Heaven is supposed to do but never got around to." 

"What is to stop Heaven from using this data to kill us all?" 

"I worry about that too," the archangel honestly admits. "But I don't feel like it's something that would be done anytime soon. Heaven is currently preparing for the Apocalypse." 

Josef whistles. "The end of the world is nearly upon us?" 

"I'm afraid so." 

Silence. 

Then the Nephilim reveals, "We keep some data about the population in Purgatory, but we don't frequently update it. However, it is there. We have it." 

"Then take me to it." 

Josef ends up leading him to Naomi and Ruth's. Selaphiel greets every familiar face and tries to stay away from the ones that aren't. He doesn't need more enemies, and he is eager to rush through this mission, because it means he can return to earth sooner. 

It takes the moon, slightly visible in the eternal sky, to change from a full to a new for Selaphiel to finally have his data. The Nephilims and the rest of the population needed to submit their consent to have their information released. 

It sounds more official than it actually is. What happens is that Nephilims, witches, vampires, and humans write on a slip of paper or a piece of spare fabric or tree bark their decision and names. Runners, the ones who travel from camps to camps to deliver messages and goods, slowly reach the rest of the population. 

Rumors travel even faster. Some Nephilims and other supernatural creatures have shown up at Naomi and Ruth's house out of curiosity, gawking at the archangel. 

"These are really good," Josef says, sitting at a wooden table outside of the house. He reverently glances at the stuffed bun in his hands. "What did you say they were called?" 

"Pirozhki," the archangel answers. 

"I haven't eaten in so long," the Nephilim admits, repressing a moan. "The bread, the meat. . . I can die a happy man if this is the last meal I would ever have." 

Selaphiel frowns. He has forgotten about the fact that though Nephilims and other souls living within Purgatory do not need to eat, it does not mean that they've forgotten the concept of food. He wordlessly reaches into the paper bag and pulls out another pirozhki. 

"You certain?" 

"I am. I don't need to eat. I'm an archangel." 

Josef stares at him for a moment, as if gauging his response. Then he helps himself to another serving, hunger overwhelming him. 

Selaphiel stands from the table, dumping the rest of the pirozhki onto Josef's plate. "Here." 

"This is too much!" He protests. 

"Then share with the others," the archangel suggests, folding the paper bag and putting it away. It’s not like he needs to eat, and besides, unlike Josef and the other Nephilims who haven’t eaten for so many years during their imprisonment in Purgatory, Selaphiel can return to earth to eat more pirozhki. 

With all of the profiles of the population in Purgatory in his backpack, Selaphiel bids farewell to Ruth and Naomi and all the other Nephilims seeing him off. He chats with Josef briefly before he leaves this plane of existence. 

"You don't need an escort to the exit?" 

"I don't. I didn't spend as much time in Purgatory as I did many years ago for Ruth," the archangel explains. "I am not drained of my power." 

"Oh. . ." Josef nods at that answer. Then he adds, "I wish you luck. Wherever you go, whatever you do." 

"Thank you." The archangel inclines his head at the Nephilim, touched by his words. He steps away from the Nephilim and ignores his audience’s eyes. He flies off, easily finding the very center of Purgatory as he follows along the line of the lake. He clears over the hedges guarding the Garden of Eden from the rest of Purgatory, his wings flapping as his eyes scan for the exit. 

He spies it in the very center of the garden. 

His feet land in a vibrant clearing, blooming with dandelions and other flowers. Selaphiel pays no attention to the scenery, all eyes on the portal. 

The portal out of Purgatory is no longer a pool of water. Selaphiel slowly approaches the free-standing door, a splendid color of ivory. He places his hand on the knob and quickly realizes his mistake the moment he steps through the portal. 

But it's too late. 

He's already in Hell. 

And the portal seals itself behind him. 

Selaphiel blinks, turning his head this way and that, puzzled by the new change in decor. Hell has modernized, shifting its appearance away from the medieval dungeon-like style it sported the last time he visited. It looks more as if Hell has decided to become depressingly corporate, complete with polished tile floor and fluorescent lights in long hallways with locked grey doors. There's not a single window to be found. 

Selaphiel would have flown off to earth, if it wasn't for the familiar whispers. Against his better judgment, he quietly makes his approach towards the voice. Two more turns in the hallway leads to an open abyss with a basket-like cage swinging over the gaping darkness. It's bitterly cold down here in Lucifer's prison, and he finds that his second oldest brother has hardly changed a bit over the years. 

The whispers stop. 

Then Lucifer, sensing the archangel's presence, approaches, shadows of the cage dancing across his face. "You came again." 

"I did." 

The devil sighs, claws curling into the holes of the cage. "You know. . . You are the only one who visits. Out of all the archangels. Only you." 

Selaphiel does not say anything. He can't imagine why no one else visits.

“You’ve changed,” Lucifer notes. 

“I doubt it.” 

“No, something has,” the devil notes, tilting his head. “Did you gain a new hobby? Watching fish or squids now? Have you moved on from trees?” 

“I learned how to compose music recently,” Selaphiel answers, choosing to pick a neutral topic. He would rather not explain why he has drastically changed. 

Lucifer nods at that, as if his interests and hobbies matter. “Music is good. What kind of music?" 

"You wouldn't like it," Selaphiel tells him. "It's far too chaotic for your taste." 

The fallen archangel raises an eyebrow at that, but he doesn't ask any further about music. Lucifer changes the subject and wonders, "So why did you come today, little brother? Did you finally decide to choose a side? Heaven or Hell? I heard Hell has cookies, but I haven't seen any of these cookies." Lucifer cracks a smile, affecting kindness and friendliness into his tone. 

Stoic, he answers, "I stand on the side of Heaven." 

"Like the way you stood with them in the First War? You probably spent more time watching a tree than fighting for anyone," the devil says, shaking his head. "I'm curious. Why don't you fight? I mean, Ramiel. . . We all know he can't fight. He doesn't have the built or the power or even the instincts for it. Yet in every battle helmet I saw, I see his symbol etched right by the ear." Lucifer taps his temple for emphasis. 

Selaphiel swallows back his grief. The symbol is tiny, and there's only one possible reason how Lucifer is able to see it. And he knows his brother's penchant for taking trophies. 

"You, on the other hand. . ." Lucifer shakes his head. "Watching trees." 

The archangel flicks his eyes up at the cage, pondering for a brief second. He then returns his gaze back to Lucifer, calculating. 

It would be nice to imagine Selaphiel killing Lucifer right here and now. He will have to get into the cage and fight against the fallen archangel to death. Only one will survive, but of course, if Selaphiel wins, he will never be able to get out of the cage. And if Selaphiel loses, Lucifer will get out anyway and he leaves Nikolai and Yura relatively defenseless. 

So it's not a choice or a fight he can make. 

Lucifer cocks his head. "Have you finally decided which side you want to be on for the upcoming Apocalypse?" 

"Not yours." 

The devil smiles. "Not Heaven either?" 

"I always stand with Heaven." 

Lucifer's wings shake, his torso bows as a tremble runs through his body. No, not a tremble. Laughter, stifled laughter. The devil lifts his head, and he tsks. "Come on. There has to be something you look out for. The trees on earth? Or maybe you're interested in some evergreens." 

"Humanity," Selaphiel interrupts, having enough of Lucifer's games. "I stand with humanity." 

"Umm. . ." Lucifer presses his face up against the cage. "You might have not been aware of it, but humanity is about to get a culling. There's not going to be much of humanity by the time I'm through with them." 

Expressionless, Selaphiel turns away. He hates to admit it, but Lucifer is correct. There is not going to be much of humanity by the time the Apocalypse is in full swing. What kind of world would still exist for Yura? Not much of one, and he doesn't know how he can derail the end of the world, which has been planned from day one by the Creator. He is only one archangel against. . . Well, almost everything. 

"Come back and talk if you want to join us. Hell has plenty of room." 

It's only when Selaphiel is back on earth when he feels safe to reply to Lucifer, who can no longer hear him. Staring at the ground below the feet, he mutters, "Not now. Not ever. I stand with humanity." 

Then he flies towards Chicago, finding himself right in the empty guest room. He pushes the door open, his footfalls quiet and soft on the wooden floorboards. He finds Yura's room and is puzzled when he does not see the crib anymore. His wall is covered in posters of ballet dancers in motion. 

He must have been in Purgatory for a long time. That is the only explanation as to why Yura's room has changed so drastically. 

Selaphiel walks towards the living area, his eyes flicking and examining the changes. Nikolai has made this house his home. There are pictures of Yura in various stages of life. There is one of him as a baby on the wall, and the archangel can't help but smile at the toddler in another photograph, learning how to walk. 

A dropped glass is his first warning. 

"Dear God," Nikolai mutters in accented English, his jaw open and gaping like a fish. Looking a few years older than the last time Selaphiel has seen him, he makes no motion towards the broken glass by his feet. Weakly, he sits down on the couch and says, "Maybe next time you should knock. . ." 

"I'm sorry," the archangel replies, bending down and pulling out a paper bag from his pocket. He begins to collect the glass shards with ease. "Next time, I will use the front door." 

The man touches his head, as if disbelieving his very eyes. "I can't believe you're here. It has been so long that I nearly thought it was all just a dream." 

"Has much changed?" 

"Only Yura. He is six now, you see," Nikolai explains. "I signed him up for a ballet lesson last year and was surprised he actually likes it. The woman who teaches the class is Russian. She helped me improve my English. She is a former ballet dancer." 

"Is she supernatural?" 

"No, completely human. Ballet dancer, long history. She is even on the English Wikipedia," the man informs, delighting in the fact. "She has an excellent career. She danced for the Bolshoi! I'm surprised she came to America to teach here. She's so unappreciated, and she has parents coming into her studio every once in a while to tell her for being too harsh to their children." 

"Is she harsh on Yura?" 

"He is young. She does not unleash her anger on the beginners. Only the somewhat advanced students who should know better," Nikolai reassures. He does frown slightly. "But she is so expensive. He likes her, and I find it a bit difficult to budget with the rising property taxes." 

Selaphiel thinks. He can always find money or get funds if he tries hard enough. He only needs to know how much, so he asks the man. 

"Three thousand and four hundred per year," he answers. "For a six year old." 

The archangel raises an eyebrow, nodding. It's not as much as he expected, but he will have to examine the Plisetsky's financials to see if the trust needs to dolt out a larger distribution per month. 

"There's more. The price doubles when he becomes eleven years old." 

"She can do that?" 

"She is sought after," the Russian explains, wincing. "Last year, her student took gold at World's Championship for figure skating. And the year before that, a girl represented Australia on their gymnastics team and took silver." 

"She sounds prestigious." 

"She is prestigious," Nikolai corrects. "And expensive. The price doubles again when the student turns fourteen. She says it allows her to focus on less students and give them a better. . ." The man searches for the correct word. "Experience?" 

"Lesson?" 

Nikolai shakes his head, frustrated by the lack of the correct term. "Four years in America and I still haven't learned all of the vocabulary." 

"You will," Selaphiel reassures. "It only takes time." 

The archangel doesn't get the chance to see Yura, who is currently at the ballet studio and learning simple jumps and training his flexibility. Instead, he flies to Heaven to deliver the reports to Gabriel, who will slide it across Michael's desk. 

Selaphiel doesn't visit as much throughout the years, and he rarely sees Yura, who is busy with conquering ballet. Nikolai, who keeps the archangel updated via texting and dutifully refreshes the demon sigils in the basement, renders Selaphiel's role to financials only. The archangel returns to his duty of collecting humanity's lost hopes and retains Yulia Plisetsky's living, breathing hope close to his heart. 

Then he gets a phone call from Nikolai. 

"There's something wrong," he says, sounding as if he's whispering into the phone. "I ignored this dream the first time, because I thought it might be his imagination. But it's not." 

"Tell me. What does he dream about?" 

"A cage. He sees a cage, and he hears whispers that sound like nails scratching against a chalkboard," Nikolai answers.

"What does the cage look like?" 

"He said it was dark. But he said he had claws and the material was some sort of wooden fiber like a basket," the man murmurs. 

Selaphiel shuts his eyes. "He's seeing Lucifer's point of view. It's probably the psychic link." 

"Is there a way to disconnect it?" 

The archangel pinches the bridge of his nose. He searches his mind, trying to remember anything about the psychic link between the devil and the antichrist. There's supposed to be one, so they can better facilitate and coordinate their actions against Michael in the Apocalypse. "I don't know, but. . . I can't ask any of my brothers or sisters. I'm not supposed to care about him. I'm not supposed to even think about this." 

"Then. . . Is it possible for you to stay permanently close? It would make me feel more comfortable." 

So when Yura turns fifteen years old, Selaphiel moves into the Plisetsky's home. Nikolai, wanting to keep Yura ignorant of his destiny and to give him a pleasant childhood, has Selaphiel posing as their renter. 

"One thing." 

"Yes? 

"You can't go by Selaphiel. No one has a name like that," Nikolai reasons, sitting in the corner of the local coffee shop. 

Three days later, the furniture company ships a twin-sized bed. Selaphiel, dropping the identity of an archangel on the doorsteps of the Plisetsky's house, becomes. . . 

"Otabek Altin," he answers, meeting Yura's glare. He's taken aback by the harsh personality and attitude the teenager throws at him. It's a far cry from the sweet baby who gurgles  _ Bek Bek Bek  _ at him whenever he wants something. 

"Hmm." Yura returns to his game. 

After a moment of hesitation, Otabek walks upstairs to his new room. He stares at the empty walls and closes his eyes. He's not going to return to Heaven for a long time. Gabriel has his excuses, a written report citing the increased numbers of lost hope. It should be enough to dissuade anyone from bothering him for a while. 

He hopes. 

Oh, he hopes. 

At night, he listens to the sound of Nikolai snoring. He doubts the humans would hear, but as an angel, Otabek can. Potya the cat has taken a liking to him and spends her time lounging on top of the piano keyboard, soaking in the sunlight streaming in through the window. The Siberian cat meows at him, eating the small offerings Otabek always keeps on himself. 

With Yura not knowing his truth, Otabek pretends to be a human all the time. He has a job at the local nightclub mixing old songs and the top 50 hits alike, so they sound new to humans. He likes this work. Music always behaves the way he expects, the exact opposite of Yura. 

"You have a motorcycle?" Yura asks, blinking owlishly at the said vehicle. 

"Yes." 

Without further comment, the teenager returns to his gaming. 

Otabek doesn't know what he expected. Perhaps, he expected a conversation and a connection with Yura. But it’s not within reach. 

Yura starts odd conversations that go nowhere. He asks about Otabek’s interests, if he plays any games, which the archangel doesn’t. He asks about school, which has Otabek blinking in surprise but answering with nothing. He asks about Otabek’s age, which is a difficult question, for the archangel is as old as the universe itself. 

“It’s a simple question, not some philosophy shit.” Yura narrows his eyes. “What kind of person doesn’t know how old they are?” 

“Eighteen,” he answers. 

“Where are your parents?” 

Otabek pauses at this question, racking his brain while Yura waits expectedly. Technically, his parent is the Creator. They haven’t been seen for a long time, and how could Otabek explain that to the teenager? No, he has to say something else. So he simply replies, “I don’t know.” 

Yura blinks. Then he tentatively says, “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t pry or ask any further. 

It takes two weeks for Yura to approach him again. Otabek is beginning to suspect the teenager is like a cat, wary of outsiders. He is almost tempted to wave pieces of dried fish, but he doubts it will go over that well. Besides, Potya will be jealous. 

"You'd ever played Mario Kart?" 

It takes several games for Otabek to get the hang of it. His instincts, perfectly honed from the very moment he existed, allows him to grab boosts and manipulate the controller faster than a human possibly could. 

But he likes whenever Yura laughs and he enjoys the teenager's company. He attentively listens as Yura shows him other games like Call of Duty and Overwatch. 

Otabek makes the effort to reach out in return. He might not understand the video games Yura plays, but he knows how to bake sweets and he knows how to mix music. 

He memorizes the very spark of delight in the teenager's eyes when Otabek presents him a flash drive full of dramatic, orchestral music that is well-suited for listening while gaming. 

"You're fucking talented," Yura praises. "No wonder why all the clubs want you to DJ." 

And Otabek can't help the slight smile at that. 

Time marches forward. 

Yura gets a job as a dancer for the club, and it takes everything Otabek got to ensure they become a duo act. He would rather not see Yura fall down to another sort of dancing. 

As Otabek spends more time with him, he finds himself picking out the other's habits and quirks. Yura has a sharp tongue that is equally met by the forceful personality of his ballet instructor, Lilia. He's grouchy, moody. But he will make pirozhki when he thinks no one is watching and slip them onto Otabek's plate when Yuta thinks he isn't looking. 

And Otabek? 

He reciprocates, reaching across for the extended olive branch. He mixes new songs for Yura and brings home takeout to share, and he finds himself looking forward to every discussion about the news, the dull nature of classes, the songs, the ballet lessons. . . Because he cherishes every piece of himself Yura offers. 

He can't help but feel the worsening guilt crawling up his throat as Yura's nightmares worsen. 

And then he sleeps less at night, puffy eyes that can't be hidden by makeup. 

"We should tell him," Otabek argues. "I don't know what else I can do, but if we tell him, then he won't believe he is going insane or is actively living through an  _ Insidious  _ movie." The archangel has never seen a horror movie until yesterday. 

Nikolai closes his eyes, laying down on the couch with his hands covering his temples. "I know we need to tell him." A pause. "Tonight. We cook a nice dinner. We tell him there." 

The archangel knows that Nikolai only wants Yura to have a normal childhood. Otabek doesn't know of any way to break their psychic connection. . . 

"Alright." Otabek nods. Then he steps away, moving towards the stairs. He pauses at the landline, the machine flashing.  _ Call in progress, _ it reads. Yura's phone number is right underneath. 

The archangel makes no mention of this to Nikolai. He places the handset back onto the hook, ending the call. 

He wonders how much Yura has heard. 

Plenty, it turns out. 

The teenager doesn't show up for dinner. 

It only takes five minutes for Otabek to find him. Practicing in the ballet studio, as always. He's predictable in that matter. The archangel clears his throat, making his presence known. 

Yura slowly puts his foot down, staring at Otabek's reflection. "Over dinner? A nice dinner and explain everything? Dinner doesn't solve shit even if you cook all of my favorites." A pause. "What the hell do you and my grandfather know?" 

The archangel briefly considers and then slowly unfurls his wings, the ballet studio's lights temporarily sparkling off as the shadows of his wings appear behind him. Then just as quick, the lights return. 

Yura stares at him, as if he has never seen Otabek before in his entire life. "What the fucking hell even is that?" 

"I'm an archangel," he explains. "One of the seven archangels in Heaven." 

A pause. 

"What. The. Fuck." 

Otabek thinks that's a decent reaction from Yura. His grandfather behaved in a similar way when he found out, except he was more dazed and stunned. Yura just looks angry. Over the months he has lived with Yura, he has learned that the teenager will not interact if he's truly upset. Like the one time he gave the silent treatment to his classmate and occasional friend for eating his lunch without asking for permission. 

"An archangel?" Yura furrows his eyebrows. "You mean, one of those fearsome, smite-happy supernatural creatures?" 

"I don't smite people. . . That is more of Ramiel's territory," Otabek says. 

Silence. 

Then Yura turns around. "And what is this shit about my nightmares? What the fuck do you know about them that I don't?" 

Otabek sits down on the floorboards, gesturing for the teenager to do the same. He watches as Yura finally bends his knees and sits cross-legged. "It is quite a story." 

"I got time. It's not like I want to sleep anymore." 

The archangel flinches at that thought. But he starts at the very beginning. "A long time ago, Lucifer, who you probably better know as the devil, was an archangel. He raised an army against Heaven and lost. His vessel, a body that can contain an angel's form, was destroyed." 

"But what does any of this have to do with me?" 

"His followers are demons," Otabek explains. "They spend years curating generations to create a vessel fit enough for Lucifer. When Lucifer is freed from his prison, then Lucifer will take his vessel and begin the final battle against Heaven." A pause. "That vessel is you." 

"You mean. . ." 

"You don't have to become Lucifer's vessel," the archangel quickly adds. "Lucifer's vessel is called the antichrist, but you don't have any of the preparations that the demons were supposed to undertake for you." 

"Wait. . ." Yura blinks, confused. "But what does any of this have to do with my nightmares?" 

"You're the antichrist." 

"What," he says flatly. "Get out of here." 

After a moment of silence, Otabek begins to explain the antichrist's fate. He's supposed to be raised by a demon named Abaddon, who would feed him demon blood until he becomes too old for it. He will eventually kill his father and help Lucifer rise from his prison. 

"What is this vessel thing?" 

"Like possession. He takes over your body." 

"What the fuck. What. The. Fuck." And with that Yura walks away, shaking his head in disbelief. He stops in the doorway. "I need some time to process this shit." 

Otabek does, granting him both time and space. It's not every day when one's life becomes complicated, messy. Before knowing any of this, Yura worried about simple things. Homework, tests, and the sore topic of whether or not he’ll be a beta like his grandfather or an omega like his mother. Otabek returns to Nikolai, explaining what he has done. 

And for the lack of anything better to do, he waits. 

It takes a week for Yura to approach him again, even more skittish than Potya after the one time Otabek accidentally stepped on her tail. It took an ounce of dried fish for her to trust him again. 

"I think you should have told me. Like a long time ago," Yura says, dropping into the bean bag chair Otabek has right by his bed. "But at the same time. . . I'm glad I didn't have to spend half my life looking over the shoulder." He pets Potya's back, glancing at nothing in particular. 

The archangel doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't utter a single word. 

"You got anything that can help with my nightmares? Some angelic magic?" 

That’s how Otabek finds himself helping Yura sleep every night. With Potya keeping them company, the archangel concentrates as he banishes Lucifer’s memories from Yura’s mind. It’s difficult work, but he finds that it’s easier to absorb Lucifer’s memories himself than to erase them. The advantage in this is that Otabek can see Lucifer’s movements and predict his next actions before the devil thinks of it himself. The downside is that he has to put himself into Lucifer’s shoes every day. 

It’s not a mind he enjoys. 

One night, Yura stays up to do a gaming tournament. Otabek, done with his shift at the local nightclub, has gathered his sheet music and sat down in the corner of Yura's room to work. Everyone wants to hear something new, and if the archangel wants to keep the job, he needs to deliver. 

"Do angels dream?" Yura asks as the grey screen of defeat flashes on the monitor. 

"We don't need to sleep." 

"But do you dream?" 

"I dream your dreams," Otabek says. 

A pause. Then he says, "I'm sorry. That you do." He turns around and adds, "You can stop." 

"It's okay," the archangel reassures, lowering his headphones. "I've seen worse, and it doesn't bother me anymore." 

It's a lie. It still bothers him. But he wants to set Yura's mind at ease, and this small lie won't hurt anyone. 

Yura nods, accepting. He yanks out his earbuds and pulls up a chair to sit by Otabek. "What are you working on?" He leans in, squinting at the sheet music. 

"I'm trying to blend three songs into one remix," the archangel explains. "This one is a song by Backstreet Boys, and you've heard of 'Wannabe' by Spice Girls. I haven't decided how I will fit in Nicki Minaj, but it might not be her song in the end." 

"You prefer the older songs." 

"I do." Otabek can't explain why, but he likes the way songs from the 90s and early 2000s sound. He has a soft spot for that era. 

"Why not Shakira? She's from that era. Nicki Minaj doesn't really fit in." 

The archangel pencils in her name. He tilts his head thoughtfully. "I will have to see which song will fit in." He works quietly for another minute until he notices that Yura is still staring at him. "Are you ready to go to sleep?" 

"Uh. . . Yeah, I have to brush first. Hang on." The teenager shakes his head, as if to snap out of a trance. He returns three minutes later and quickly slips underneath the covers. 

Otabek sets down the sheet music and pulls up a chair. Yura has said many weeks ago it was disconcerting to see the archangel hovering over like a ghost while the teenager was trying to fall asleep. Otabek reaches out to touch Yura's temple, to pull the dreams from his mind. 

"Wait," says Yura, blocking Otabek with his hand. "You go back to your room after you're done, right?" 

The archangel inclines his head, confirming. 

"Can you stay? I don't want to fall asleep alone," Yura softly admits. 

So Otabek does. 

Sleepily, the teenager murmurs, "I like it when you stay. "You smell really good to me." 

The archangel, who can't smell his own pheromones and scent, asks, "What do I smell like?" 

"Caramel. Sweets. My favorite," Yura whispers. 

Otabek stays with him until he falls asleep and taps his temple to retrieve the dreams. He briefly looks at Yura, marveling at his soft beauty. He can see why it's so easy to fall. 

Nothing changes after that. Yet everything does change. Though Yura retains the same schedule, he spends more time by Otabek's side. The first time their hands skim against one another, Yura gasps sharply in surprise. 

Seals after seals break. 

Yura initiates, holding his hand as they walk together to the ballet studio, the grocery store, the church. . . Whenever Otabek walks alone, he finds himself missing Yura's presence.

Another seal breaks. 

Yura, his eyes wide after listening to his birthday playlist, pulls off Otabek's headphones and briefly kisses the archangel at the very corner of his mouth. Otabek is still sitting at his desk in a daze long after Yura has left for ballet practice. If this is what falling feels like, then Otabek will gladly fall for Yura. 

The final seal breaks. 

And Otabek has this foreboding feeling he can't shake off. 

Nikolai sits out on the porch one night, a handheld camping lantern on the ground. He only says one thing as Otabek unlocks the front door. "Treat him well." 

"I will," he promises. 

With that, the man smiles and returns to his book. 

Otabek would love to stay in this safe cocoon with Yura and his grandfather forever, but it turns out that it's not meant to last. 

“You got a mix of ‘Take Me Home’ by Cash Cash?” hollers a girl, shoving a dollar bill into the DJ booth. “I would appreciate it if you could play it, DJ Beka.” 

Otabek nods, slipping the bill into the tip jar. He pulls off his headphones and aviator glasses and squints as he runs a search through his music library. But as he types and locates the song to place it into the quene, he can’t help but feel eyes locked upon him, all the instincts rising up in him. Someone is watching him. 

He glances up and finds—

Yuuri Katsuki sitting at the bar. Dressed in clothes that help him blend into a dance club. But Otabek can recognize him anywhere, anytime. 

A group of college girls temporarily blocks his view.

Otabek flies right by the witch’s side, clearing the distance. Sitting on the bar stool, he grabs the witch’s shoulder before he can flee the scene. 

"I'm sorry. I'm not interested in dancing.” 

He says, "I'm not asking you to dance.” 

The witch slowly turns around, stunned. 

With a tilt of his head, he gestures to the witch’s abandoned glass. "You haven't finished your drink." The continued silence has Otabek realizing that Yuuri Katsuki actually remembers him. He doesn’t know how, but he has an idea of it. But they can’t talk here in between jostling crowds of people and loud, thumping music. So Otabek leads him to the VIP booth on the second story. They sit, staring at each other. Trying to guess what the other’s motives, the archangel presumes. 

"Won't you need to keep an eye on the music?"

"Everything has been premixed." He narrows his eyes. "You're here for him."

“Huh?” 

"Knowing who you are, you would have eventually joined the hunters or law enforcement. Due to the ongoing crisis and the Apocalypse lurking overhead, the hunters are beginning to notice. I assume that you would be one of them."

For a long moment, they hear the music pounding in the background. 

Then Yuuri says, "You visited me. When I was dead and lingering around Matsuura. In Japan."

Otabek’s eyes slightly widen. He didn’t, not completely anyway, expect for Yuuri to remember. He didn’t think the witch would be conscious while dead. "I did. That was almost sixty years ago. Had to sneak pass Azrael's hellhound and the angel himself."

"I only heard it a few weeks ago. Only remembered."

"To be honest, I hope you did. Hope is like a seed. You must plant it. Or else it will never happen." The archangel can still see the hope he left with the witch, sequestered and buried inside Yuuri’s heart. Maybe one day, it’ll grow. 

Maybe. 

“The antichrist.” 

“Yes.” Otabek quickly thinks. If they’re here about the antichrist, then who else knows— 

Probably Hell. All of Hell. 

They know about the swap. 

"Nikolai Plisetsky."

“Yes.” 

"You hid them both, didn't you?"

Otabek wants to kick himself for failing this job, but he resists. It’s nothing he can change. "I did. Not very well evidently."

"We're not here to help Lucifer," Yuuri tells him, reassuring in tone. "We're trying to stop the Apocalypse." A pause. "Can you help us?

The archangel almost wants to scream out of pure frustration. He has thought of every possible solution to stop the Apocalypse, yet. . . “I'm already doing what I can to keep him out of his reach. But I'm only slowing what is inevitable, what is destined. Once Lucifer releases the Princes of Hell and the other three Horsemen, he's going to turn his full attention to Yuri. No matter how many wards or sigils I block him with, he's going to figure it out."

"Even if you take him to Heaven?"

Otabek almost laughs at that suggestion. He doesn’t. He shakes his head. "Michael, if he notices, will march Yuri over to Lucifer himself. Earth is the safest place he can be." A pause. "There is one other place, but I can't protect him there. It's not an option."

"What place?"

"Purgatory. But like I said. I can't protect him there. Neither can you, so don't think about it. You’ll be eaten by Purgatory’s residents in no time." Otabek shrugs, feeling completely helpless. Useless. "So we're stuck. We are pushing against the clock, and it's not going to yield."

"But someone has to fight Lucifer. It's supposed to be Michael. What if you did but in a way that it doesn’t destroy an entire world?"

"It's not that simple." Otabek thinks of all the times he practiced fighting against Lucifer before the fall, before the First War. Lucifer has always allowed the younger archangel to win, creating elaborate illusions portraying his death. What would it be like to actually fight to kill the devil? 

The archangel doesn’t want to imagine it. 

"Then tell me." A pause. "Selaphiel, I'm already on your side." The witch leans forward. "Even though you've killed me a long time ago. I forgive that." And every word sounds so genuine, tasting something like honesty and truth. 

But. 

"Your mate doesn't forgive that." He grabs the collar of his own shirt and tugs, revealing a hideous scar, the flesh black in the shape of a bird. "He left that. As a permanent reminder."

"A physical reminder of the curse,” the witch breathes, shocked. 

Otabek releases his shirt. "Otabek."

“What?” 

"Otabek. It's the name I've been using for the last twenty years. I prefer you use that instead of Selaphiel. No one else except for Heaven and Hell know me by Selaphiel." And it’s true. Though he has recently made the full conversion to Otabek Altin, he hasn’t really been called by the name of Selaphiel in a long time. 

“Otabek? As in Otabek Altin?"

The archangel freezes at that name, the mention of the surname. "I suppose I didn't cover all of my tracks. You seem to know a lot about me. Maybe almost everything."

"We found you because of Nikolai. Then once we figured his alias, we found everyone else he was in contact with. That’s how we found you and the others."

Oh. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter now. If you can find him, then my brother, who shares a psychic link with Yuri, will most definitely be able to find him.”

“But it’s not over yet. He still hasn’t possessed him. It’s not the end yet.” The determination in Yuuri’s voice almost makes Otabek want to believe there’s another way out that he hasn’t seen. 

But the archangel knows the truth. 

“Lucifer is free. Every angel knows this,” Otabek tells him. "It's only a matter of time. We know how it plays out. To the mortals and humans, it looks like the end comes out of nowhere. Disease strikes first. That's when humans will be dying by thousands. Yes, this has been foretold. War comes next. If you have been paying attention to the news, you would have noticed countries growing ever so more hostile to one another. Imagine the influence of a Horseman. Nuclear bombs eliminating the most populated cities. New York City, Beijing, Berlin, London. You name it. For those who remain, they will face Famine. And while these three Horsemen reign over the world, your beloved reaps souls by the millions."

"So they will not fight before most of humanity is wiped out?"

"Yes, because Lucifer must gain power. He alone can't take on Heaven," Otabek explains patiently. "If he did, he would be instantly slewed by Gabriel and Michael. Cassiel would help. Raphael probably would."

Lucifer. . . His brother will need time to acclimate to his new vessel. 

Like breaking in new shoes. 

"And you?"

“Assuming if I don't die protecting Yuri, then yes, I think."

Assuming if the curse doesn’t kill him first, he thinks. 

It’s a big assumption. 

Then the aftershock of Lucifer breaking the prisons of the fallen angels throws everything into turmoil, alerting Otabek. Lucifer is coming. 

He’s coming for Yura. 

And Nikolai is nowhere to be found as Yura and a swarm of Interpol agents are gathered in their home to prepare for Lucifer’s arrival. Otabek longs to fly to search for him, but he stays put. He must keep an eye on Yura. It’s their priority. It’s what Nikolai wanted. Protect Yura. 

Grouchy, Yura says, "It's probably nothing. He can't get to me that fast. Maybe in a week. He's been in Hell for so long I bet his senses have dulled and rotted."

The archangel resists a smile. At least, Yura isn’t feeling down. But then he notices a disturbance miles upon miles away. Narrowing his eyes at the magic swarming in the atmosphere, he informs, "He finished meeting with the remaining Horsemen.” 

“Beka.” 

At the sound of Yura’s voice, Otabek turns his eyes away from the horizon. "You will be alright," the archangel says, moving closer to the teenager and bending down to meet his eyes. "I promise." He clasps Yura’s sweaty hand, squeezing reassuringly even though he doesn't believe his own words. 

How could he? 

It's Lucifer. 

He is only one archangel and not even the strongest one at that. 

"We are worried about nothing.” Scowling, Yura babbles, "My grandfather will be back. Sooner than you know. It doesn't mean anything at all. His phone runs out of battery all the time."

Then a sudden pin prick of pain pokes at Otabek’s side. 

"Lucifer is coming." Otabek's voice cuts through the silence. "I feel him breaking the ward on Willis Tower."

Yura shrieks, "What?" 

"How much time do we have? I only have a few more sigils to draw." One Interpol agent shakes his paint bottle, kneeling by the wall. 

“Ten minutes,” Otabek estimates. 

"What is going on?" Yuuri Katsuki suddenly shouts, a hand at his ear. Then his eyes flick to another agent, his voice steady. "Get ready.” Under his breath, he mutters, "How did they even find out?"

The archangel knows. “They only needed to follow their boss," Otabek answers. "Yura is like a beacon to him." As long as Yura has the psychic link, Lucifer will always know. 

"Hey, I'm no one's beacon and no one's archangel condom!" 

At that outrage and the burst of pheromones, everyone glances at Yura. 

Yura shrinks back, still shrieking. "What are you looking at? Huh?"

"Otabek, how close is he now?"

The archangel concentrates. "Closing in. Much faster than I thought.” As a precaution, he pulls out his blade. 

"Is that an archangel's blade?"

“Yes.” Before Otabek can say anything else, a sudden thud at the door startles him. His heart skips a beat, and he instantly knows something is terribly wrong, the great foreboding feeling sinking deep inside his stomach. 

"Don't answer it," says an Interpol agent, turning himself to block the antichrist from the front door. "Is there another way out of here?"

"No, you will have to jump into the hag's backyard," Yura answers, referring to their hellish neighbor who is not a demon. He scowls. "She's going to bitch about how I ruin her roses again."

"She's going to be the least of your problems," the agent replies. "I feel wards coming on, and they do not feel friendly to me at all."

"Knock, knock," greets Lucifer, mocking in tone. "I come from the solar company."

The very sound of his voice has Otabek trying to fly with Yura, only to find his wings dully moving as if lead weights have been tied to them. 

"Don't open it," the Interpol agent hisses. "It's not a salesman."

"I'm being blocked."

"What?" Yuuri Katsuki snaps his head back to the archangel. "What do you mean blocked? How can you be blocked?"

"Lucifer is blocking him from escaping," the other Interpol agent explains, seemingly comprehending the situation perfectly. "Run the other way. Yuuri and I will hold him off."

It’s odd. 

Otabek has never seen a human fully grasp the situation without missing a beat. Or is he a human? The archangel analyzes him a little more carefully, looking into his soul. He’s surprised to find two pearls nestling within, close to his heart. But that’s not all. 

No, he can see the marks Raphael left behind a long time ago. 

Back in the First War. 

Nephilim. 

But how? How did he even escape Purgatory? And why is he on their side now? Standing against Lucifer? Against his own father? 

The entire situation, for the first time ever, smells wrong. As if someone else is interfering. Someone powerful enough to remove a Nephilim from Purgatory without anyone noticing, and there’s very few forces who can actually accomplish that. 

His mind races, calculations running through his head. For the first time, he sees a way out for Yura. He only needs to buy time for Yura to run. So he slips his hand inside his clothes and begins carving on his very skin with nails digging into the flesh. 

"I'm not running and neither is Otabek," Yura declares, standing. "We will make our stand here. Shove his ass back into Hell where it belongs!"

Then the door finally gives, flying off and thankfully hitting no one. 

It’s suddenly cold, as if winter has decided to come again. 

A single pair of feet steps inside the house. "I was hoping for a warm welcome."

Otabek steps in front of everyone, shielding with his very body. 

The devil’s eyes meet his. "Brother," Lucifer chuckles, red blood dripping from his cheek. "I'm surprised it was you hiding my rightful vessel."

The devil looks terrible, his vessel rapidly decaying as it struggles to contain Lucifer's form. It's not going to last much longer. The human, if he survives and finds medical help in time, will be damaged permanently. 

"Lucifer," Otabek intones, raising his blade defensively in front of him. "Turn around and do not dare to darken this door again."

Lucifer peers at the archangel. He smirks slightly. "Oh, little brother. You have no chance against me. You only delay what is inevitable."

"Like hell am I going with you," Yura spits, cursing from Otabek's shadow. "You go back to the hole you crawled out of if you know what is good for you."

Otabek nearly smiles in pride. 

Lucifer tsks. "What a vessel. One with a severe attitude problem. No matter." He steps forward, just one foot.

Otabek steps back, warily. 

Tension crackles in the air, and every breath is slow, measured. The archangel’s heart pounds loudly, and he knows in his heart that he can’t defeat Lucifer. If he fights him here, he might hurt Yura in the aftershock of the battle. 

The devil smirks even wider. "Even with me in this form, in this poor vessel, you know you can't defeat me, Selaphiel. Your only choice today is to watch your own hope die."

The archangel pulls a bloodied hand out of his leather jacket. His next words are quiet but firm. He whispers, steel in his words, "Not today."

Lucifer tilts his head, confused by the blood dripping from Otabek. "Why are you bleeding?"

The archangel ignores him, turning around. He scans the room, his eyes landing upon Yura. There are so many words he wants to say in this very moment, but he has to tell him the most important thing. "Run. Don't look back." Then he lifts up his jacket and shirt. 

The sight of the Enochian sigil wipes the smirk off Lucifer’s face. "Wait, no!" 

Quickly, Otabek slams his palm against the sigil, banishing them both from the Plisetsky’s house. He’s disoriented for a moment, until his sight settles. He’s relieved to find himself standing for once. Blinking slowly, he heals the bloody marks on his stomach and forces the blood to disappear from his clothes. He straightens out his clothes. 

A door bursts open, and Lilia’s eyes narrow. 

The former prima ballerina purses her lips. “Otabek, you’re still here?” 

“I. . .” Otabek glances around, finding his bike still parked behind Lilia’s ballet studio. “Forgot my motorcycle,” he finishes lamely.

“Hmph.” Lilia props the door open, stepping closer to the archangel in her high heels. “Tell Yura he got the part of the Tsarevna. He’s not responding to any of my texts.” 

Otabek nods blankly. 

Lilia disappears into her ballet studio, the door swinging shut behind her with a thud. 

The archangel doesn’t miss a beat. With the sigil’s magic still active around the Plisetsky’s house, he starts up his bike and quickly speeds his way back to the neighborhood. Piles of bodies are everywhere, dripping with sluggishly dark red blood. Demons. Firefighters and police officers swarm the area, but he finds no sign of Yura or of Nikolai. 

In fact. He can’t even sense Yura anymore. 

Almost as if the teenager disappeared. 

Otabek tries not to panic. There can be several reasons why he disappeared, and some of them aren’t bad. But it doesn’t feel as if Lucifer is at full power, as if he has captured Yura and made the teenager his vessel. 

The archangel doesn't return to Heaven. He knows that is what Heaven would have wanted. They need him for the war, but Otabek only wants to find Yura. 

He finds not a single sign of Nikolai. 

So he does the next best thing. He follows the movements of demonic forces and watches helplessly as the world falls. A few bombs wipe Europe off the map, and a plague sweeps through the Asian continent. 

He does what he knows. He follows the demons, and he collects the shattered hopes of humanity. 

Then he hears a voice, calling out from the dark, words spilling out in a rush. 

_ Otabek? I don't know how to even pray, but we need some help. He’s coming after us!  _

The archangel locks into Yura’s voice, relieved to hear it’s actually  _ Yura.  _ He’s somewhere in the east, and Otabek crosses distances, rapidly approaching Japan. In fact, the location looks familiar now. 

Matsuura, Japan. 

Yuuri Katsuki lived here. Maybe he still does. 

And what he finds is a mess, the witch sprawled over a pile of glass and debris. It looks as if a giant lawn mower has decided to run over the house. 

There's no sign of the devil. 

He floats over a body that once contained Lucifer, turning it over. He reels back in shock at Nikolai's glassy eyes. 

Death has visited. 

Otabek shuts his eyes.  _ I'm sorry, my friend. I've failed.  _

After a moment of silence, he turns his attention to Yuuri Katsuki. 

The archangel lands right next to the witch. "What happened?" Otabek intones, his hand reaching out to help the witch stand up. Once Yuuri is standing, albeit rather unsteadily, he bends down to pick up Yuuri’s spectacles. There’s something different about the witch, and he doesn’t quite. . .

_ Oh.  _

Wait. Maybe there is still hope left in this world. 

"I can fix that."

The archangel nods, returning it to Yuuri. "So what happened here?"

"Lucifer," Yuuri answers, confused. "How did you find me?"

"I felt Yuri's presence once Lucifer removed the anti-angel sigils carved into his bones," the archangel explains, watching the witch shake his eyeglasses and magically fix the lenses. "So. Congratulations."

"Huh?"

"The baby," Otabek points out. "It's a Nephilim. Its growth is accelerated, which is why it's so obvious."

"Is it okay? I was thrown out of the window. . ." His voice is filled with concern. 

"Nephilims are strong. It takes a lot more than that to forcibly kill one." And Otabek remembers. He remembers the Great Flood. And he remembers what happened nine hundred years ago. 

"Are you going to carry out Michael's order?" he asks, his face pale. A hand slips closer to his stomach. 

Otabek shakes his head. "I have a line of worse offenses. One more won't hurt." He offers a small smile at the witch, trying to set him at ease. "Your child will be born in less than three months."

"Are they going to grow that fast in their childhood?"

"Depends. Lucifer's child, your friend Emil, grew up fast, because he needed warriors for his war. Others, who did not grow under such influences, had the same development as a human baby." Otabek stares out at the distance, suddenly noticing the Angel of Death hovering nearby with his scythe strapped over his back. "I must go. You should call for Victor for help. Before the Four Horsemen set what remains of Japan on fire."

Then Otabek takes off, not wanting to stay a moment longer. 

Yura is a beacon. Otabek has spent over a month trying to find him, but now. . . He’s within reach. He’s so close that Otabek’s heart skips a beat at the sight of Yura dancing by the koi pond. It’s a strange sight, because he has never seen the teenager dance outside of his room, a stage, or a ballet studio. The archangel slowly, tentatively, makes his approach. 

But there’s something wrong. 

Otabek’s instincts have never failed him, so he pauses in his step. He narrows his eyes, spending a brief moment to examine, analyze, Yura. 

Then he sees it. And he steps closer. 

“What do you think of it?” The ballet dancer stops, his feet coming to rest. His voice is just like Yura's. 

Otabek pauses at that. Then he cuts through the chase. He’s not one to play Lucifer’s games. Not now, not ever. “Hello, brother.” 

There’s a hint of the older brother he has known and loved when Lucifer pouts and questions, “What gave it away?” 

The archangel doesn’t answer. But. . .

Yura. That’s how. He’s never been great at dancing Odile’s part. 

“Fine. Be that way.” A pause as Lucifer waits expectedly. “Have you finally picked a side?” 

Otabek’s blade, the weight of it familiar, slips out of his arm sheath. It slides into his palm with ease as he stares down at Lucifer in Yura’s body. Staring right into the teenager’s familiar green eyes, he whispers, “Yura, fight him.” 

Lucifer smirks. “There’s no Yura here.” Then he takes himself into the sky, Otabek quickly following at his heels. Wings flap and strain with effort as they clash once in the stratosphere, a burst of bright light exploding between them. 

The archangels’ form expands, unrestricted by the laws of earth set so long ago by the Creator. They clash again and again, no mercy shown by either archangel. 

Lucifer wields two longswords while Otabek’s gladius sparks with celestial power, glowing white. As Otabek blocks Lucifer’s fierce blows, he realizes something important. 

He can’t win. If he does, he kills Yura as well. And he can’t live with himself if he does. 

_ Please. A good life with many years to come. Please. That's all I ask. That's all I hope for. _

A long time ago, he told Yuuri Katsuki to pray for a miracle. He doesn’t know if the Creator is even listening anymore, but there is someone else who can take action. Someone tangible, reachable. 

So with all of his heart and will, he prays,  _ Victor, Azrael, Malak al-Mawt, hear my call.  _

“So did you pick Heaven after all? Came here to soften me up for Michael?” Lucifer sneers. “You’re only a practice round to me, little brother!” 

_ Remember your hope.  _

Lucifer easily parries Otabek’s strike. “You will have to do better than that.” 

_ Remember your dreams.  _

“Pathetic!” 

Then Otabek is screaming, a flaming sword cutting right through his wings. With Lucifer’s breath against his neck and the point of the sword poking at his back, the archangel knows it’s over. Almost over. The copy of Lucifer in front of him disappears, merely an illusion. 

“Any last words?” 

Dropping his gladius, Otabek merely reaches into his pocket and pulls out Yulia’s hope, the glowing pearl. Speaking aloud, he addresses an ear miles upon miles away. “Please keep my hope alive.” Then the pearl falls and Lucifer is huffing in disgust, the tip of a bloodied sword protruding right through Otabek’s chest. 

Lucifer yanks his sword out, letting Otabek fall. 

Someone is screaming. Distantly. 

As his wings disintegrate while falling to earth, as he feels his heart shatter into a million pieces, as he is caught by the arms of the Angel of Death, who came to collect the bitter remains of the curse and Otabek's life, as he watches the scene of two powerful archangels crashing in the sky above them with fading eyes, he longs to see Yura dance one more time. 


	10. Revelations I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~Death and All His Friends by Coldplay~~
> 
> The Clockmaker's Apprentice by David Chappell

One blink. 

Then two. 

Then cars race by on the street, the wind sweeping up dried leaves and other debris. The sun cast a gentle glow across the gleaming skyscrapers in the distance, Chicago standing tall before him, glittering under the glow of the morning sun. And Yuuri whips his head around, taking in the startling sight of school children with backpacks walking in a group without a care in the world. His mouth drops in shock at the sight of people. People acting as if there is no Apocalypse, no end of the world in sight. 

“Ugh. . .” groans a familiar voice. 

The witch spins around, his heart missing a beat at the sight of Victor’s nose bleeding. “Are you alright?” He quickly summons a clean tissue paper from his coat, reaching up to dab the blood away. He feels nothing from the bond, and it doesn't smell as if Victor is in distress. Just having a nose bleed on the streets of Chicago. 

“Careful, you’ll get blood on your clothes,” warns Victor in lieu of answering the question, holding the tissue paper. 

“Silly man, worrying about my clothes instead of your nose,” Yuuri says. But he can’t resist a smile. He's honestly relieved that Victor looks and sounds alright. “How did you get a nosebleed?” he wonders. He wasn’t aware angels can bleed. 

“I time travel farther back into the past than I’ve ever gone.” 

“Oh.” 

It takes less than a minute for the bleeding to stop, and then Victor speaks up again. "In about five minutes, your coworker will catch us and then you will meet up with your contact to the local law enforcement while I'm supposed to start my shift at the hospital." 

"Victor, you mean. . ." The witch snaps his head, and yes, he sees it. It's the same restaurant he went to so long ago, the same place he met up with Phichit and Emil. 

"We went back over a month in time," Victor confirms, dropping the bloodied tissue into his suit jacket. "I will pick you up after work. And explain everything. I promise. And I'm sorry it took so long for me to come around." He presses a warm kiss against Yuuri's cheek and disappears, flying off. 

In a daze, Yuuri walks across the street and meets up with Phichit, looking pleased and hale. Arthur peeks out from his collar. 

The witch can’t help but drink in the sight of him, relieved to see him well. Last time he saw Phichit. . . Well, it wasn’t good. 

“I say that operation is going very well.” Phichit raises a fascinated eyebrow. 

The witch opens the door of the restaurant. In a smaller, softer voice with a smile playing on his lips, he confirms, “Well, it’s going. But I think he’s coming around.” 

“Huh, that’s pretty good. Better than what Chris has. Victor has been leaving him on read,” Phichit says, pulling out his phone and adjusting Arthur on his neck. He pauses in his step, deliberately ignoring the impatient hostess waving her hand for their attention with an upturned of her nose. “He’s about to text something like. . . ‘W.T.F. Why the hell are you not answering, bitch?’ Or something like that.”

The words sound familiar, like a taste of deja vu. In fact, didn’t Phichit tell him this before? Yuuri replies, “I don’t think that will encourage Victor to do anything except to leave Chris on read for the rest of eternity.” 

The hostess, annoyed, says, “Hello? Okay, how many in your party?”

Yuuri pauses, wondering if Emil is still their contact with the local law enforcement. When Victor pulled Yuuri back in time, did it return everything to the way it was? Did it return everyone to their places? Can Victor’s chronokinesis even pull Emil out of Purgatory? 

Is Yuuri even pregnant anymore? 

Phichit says, “A reservation under Emil Nekola.”

The hostess nods, picking up two menus. “Right this way, gentlemen.” The woman leads them off to the side, pausing on the first step of the stairs. She then walks three steps ahead of them, heading to the second story. “Will you be expecting anyone else?” she inquires politely.

“No,” Phichit answers. “Just a party of three.”

She stops in front of a doorway to a private room. “Mr. Nekola is waiting for you.” She hands the menu to the two witches. “Anything to drink?”

"Lemonade." 

"Water," Yuuri says. 

“I’ll be right with you.” Then she leaves, adjusting her black uniform as she goes.

The two witches enter the room. Yuuri doesn't know what he's been expecting, but he finds Emil surrounded by plates of food. He chews through a plate of waffles with maple syrup without breathing, and his eyes widen at the two Interpol agents mid-bite. 

Yuuri stares back. Emil wasn't eating food the first time he took them out for breakfast. He was waiting for them to order. 

Emil quickly wipes his mouth and swallows. "Agent Chulanont. Agent Katsuki,” the Nephilim says, standing up from the round table. He flashes a friendly grin and offers his hand for a handshake to both of the witches. “I’m glad you were able to come.”

“Phichit. And Yuuri prefers Yuuri,” the other witch corrects with an easy grin. Arthur jumps onto the table with nary a sound. “And my hamster will never resist the offering of free food.”

The FBI agent laughs. “Of course. It’s all on the Bureau’s card. Please sit. Order what you like.” He pauses, sitting back down in his chair. “I’m really glad Interpol went out of its way to contact the local authorities this time around. Last time, they were butting heads with a drug deal involving the local mob. Right hand versus left hand, or so I’ve heard. Was a disaster from start to finish.”

“I’m thinking a nice big breakfast would be good,” Phichit declares, popping open the menu. Another hamster pops up, squeaking at the selection. “Something fattening. Steak and salad.”

Emil raises no protests at the bill. He merely turns to the other witch and asks, “Well, Yuuri. Have you decided yet?”

At the mention of food, Yuuri suddenly realizes how famished he is. He hasn't eaten anything in what feels like days. Opening the menu, his eyes skim over the prices and options. Then he furrows his eyebrows and orders, "Sandwich. House special. Clam chowder. Fries, double cheeseburger. I think I want some doughnuts to go." 

Phichit teases, "Yuuri, are you feeding two people? I don't think I've seen you eat that much since Detroit." 

"I didn't eat breakfast," the witch claims. But he hopes he is eating for two. Maybe after work, he'll head over to a convenience shop and buy a few sticks. His eyes flick over to Emil, who has returned to eating, and then he glances over to Phichit speculatively. 

Then he returns his gaze to Emil. Phichit seems normal, and he doesn't act like he has gone through a timeline where Arthur died and he. . . 

But Emil. Emil wasn't eating the first time they came to this restaurant. 

So Yuuri clears his throat and tilts his head curiously at the Nephilim. "So Emil, does the name of Hiroko ring any bells?" 

The Nephilim chokes on his cheeseburger, coughing. He washes it down with a can of soda, eyes widening. "Wait, do you actually. . ." He shakes his head in wonder. "So do you actually remember what happened?" 

"What happened?" Phichit frowns, staring between the two of them. "Is there something I'm missing? Why did you mention your mother’s name, Yuuri?" 

The witch turns to his best friend. "Do you remember how I went to Purgatory?" 

The Thai witch blinks, no recollection at all. "You talking about that bar in Detroit? I mean. It was a terrible bar we went to. Expensive drinks, terrible crowd, bad music. . . Glad we bar-hopped to another one." 

"No, I mean, actual Purgatory. Like Hell and Heaven," Yuuri says, waving and gesturing as if his very hands can bring back Phichit's memories. "You remember any of that?" 

"I only know there's a bar called Purgatory." 

"He doesn't remember," the Nephilim concludes. He exhales slowly. "Holy shit, I thought it was a daydream or something. Boss thought I was insane for even mentioning a realistic dream and told me to take a nap after I meet up with you guys." 

"How come you remember?" Yuuri inquires. 

"I don't know," he answers. "I only remember hanging out at Ruth's house with your family's hellhound and with Hiroko. She was in the middle of telling a story, and then. . ." He snaps a finger. "I came back here." A pause. "I'm honestly relieved to be back here." 

"So you know. . ." Yuuri can't finish his question as the waitress brings in plates of food. He waits for her to leave before he continues, referring to the timeline, "You know what happens next?" 

"I do." Emil folds his napkin. "We have two choices here. We can continue the path of the original timeline or we can try to change things." 

Phichit cuts in, his head swiveling in confusion. "Um, you guys know something I don't?" 

Shaking his head warningly at the Nephilim, Yuuri quickly says, "We can't talk here. This location isn't secured. But we should get the team up to date." 

"Yuuri." 

The witch turns to Emil. "Yes?" 

"We don't have much time," he points out. "We have less than a week before he comes." 

Yuuri doesn't need to ask who _he_ is. He knows.

* * *

Getting the team up to date only means getting Phichit up to date on the time traveling fiasco. Emil correctly pointed out that telling the team about the timeline getting a do over would only confuse everyone. Yuuri tells Phichit a brief summary in the new headquarters. 

The Thai witch sticks out his tongue in disgust upon hearing the complete destruction of Europe, which does indeed include Paris and Venice. "So the world goes and everyone dies?" 

"Yep." The witch pulls out his swiveling desk chair and sits. He finds his phone, frowning as he notices it flashing a low battery icon. He must have a charger somewhere. . . 

"Is there anything else that happens?" 

Yuuri doesn't want to describe the former timeline. Or is it the future? He doesn't want to speak of Sara, he doesn't want to talk about Yakov, and he doesn't want to be reminded of Mari. So he merely says, "A lot of bad things happened." 

"How bad?" 

"Bad." A pause. "Like two nuclear bombs dropped on Japan bad with steroids. Worse than World War II bad." 

"Okay," Phichit nods. "Then you already know what happens." 

"I do." Yuuri scratches at his chin in thought. "I know where the antichrist is. Emil is correct when he said we don't have much time, because Lucifer is coming for him on Monday. Except. . ." 

Suddenly, Yuuri remembers the sigils the Nephilim used to hide Yurio away from Lucifer for a time. It ends up failing in the end, but those sigils can buy enough time for Yurio to. . . 

"What is it?" Phichit blinks, confused. 

The witch reaches into his coat, fishing for the sword. He pulls it out by the hilt, awed by the power flicking around the blade. It’s still here. He still has it. 

"Umm, Yuuri, did you get something out of your pocket that was invisible? I can't see a thing." Phichit pets his hamster, who squeaks several times in agreement. 

"The sword of War. The Horseman," Yuuri explains, his voice hushing in excitement. "The weapons wielded by the Four Horsemen can be transformed into a key that will open up Lucifer's prison." 

"But Lucifer is free." 

"So we can put the devil back into the cage," Yuuri says. "We only need three more pieces." 

Technically, two. Victor has the scythe. And then there's the big question of getting Lucifer into the cage itself. 

"Okay. . ." Phichit scratches the hamster. "But do you want to tell the team? About the antichrist and the fact that you know where he is?" 

"No," Yuuri concludes. 

"We can say we found him and muck up some fake evidence," the other witch points out. "It's not that difficult." 

"Maybe. . ." A pause. "We need a plan, and we don't have that much time." 

Phichit sighs. "Okay. But we need to actually do something. The team is on the way to track Nikolai Plisetsky down. I'm sure we will figure out where he lives by this Sunday. We're close." 

"I know." A pause. "I need time to think."

* * *

What Yuuri actually does is send a memo to Yakov Feltsman to inform him that the witch is leaving work early. Maybe he will have time to think about the bigger problem in the picture when he finally lays his thoughts and worries to rest. 

The witch easily finds a pharmacy that provides several different brands of pregnancy tests. Yuuri buys three different brands and some chocolate bars to make sure he's not dreaming. 

Finding a bathroom is a little more difficult. He eventually finds a gas station with a cashier that didn't even lift her eyes from her phone game when she pointed out the bathroom. 

After waiting several minutes for the tests to work, Yuuri wants to laugh in relief when he compares the results. 

Positive. 

Positive. 

Positive. 

She. . . Or he. . . They're still here with him. 

But Yuuri needs to go to work. He needs to make sure there's a safe world for them to be born in. And then he remembers what Otabek said in what seems so long ago. 

Three months. Less than three months. 

In the original timeline, the world goes to complete shit in a month. Something needs to be done to make sure this world doesn't fall into chaos. 

Pulling him away from his thoughts, Yuuri's phone chimes noisily in the bathroom. Incoming text messages. 

It's from Victor. 

His heart skips a beat, and then he opens the message. 

_ I'll pick you up now. Address?  _

Yuuri loads Google Maps on his phone to find the exact address of the gas station. He's not certain how, but he suspects Victor knows every street and number and zip code of the entire planet. Or maybe he travels back and forth in time to pick up Yuuri the exact second after Yuuri's text message turns to read. 

Dressed in his scrubs, Victor plants his phone into his pocket. Bestowing a brief kiss on Yuuri's cheek, he inquires happily, "So. Do you want to eat first in Matsuura or someplace else?" 

Yuuri thinks back. "We don't have any food at home, do we?" 

"We can check." 

The witch shakes his head. "I'm kind of craving. . ." He casts his eyes away, twisting his hands nervously. "You think we can go to Hasetsu? It's morning right now for them." 

Victor nods. "We can go." A pause as his alpha clears his throat awkwardly. "Maybe you should call someone before we show up randomly at their doorstep. Before we look rude." 

"Right," Yuuri agrees, remembering Mari slamming the door in Victor's face. He quickly pulls out his phone, unlocking it. He changes his keyboard to kanji and sends off a text immediately. 

_ Hey, you don't mind if I come over for breakfast today? In like ten minutes?  _

Mari quickly responds.  _ Wow. You didn't even mention you were in Japan.  _

_ That's cause I'm not in Japan. I'm in Chicago.  _

His sister replies back with another text.  _ Okay, how are you getting around the international borders?  _

_ I'll explain in person.  _

The witch stows his phone away, his hand finding Victor's with ease. "Okay. Ready." 

It's a whirlwind of colors before Yuuri adjusts his eyeglasses and realizes that they are standing merely meters away from the front door of Yutopia. He turns towards Victor, suddenly realizing that he has said very little to his family about the updates in his life. He mentioned to Mari about Victor, but they don't know. . . 

The alpha picks up the witch's mood. "Is something wrong? Do you wish to turn back?" 

"No. It's just odd. It's whole again. Perfect. Undestroyed." 

"Yuuri." Victor's voice is barely louder than a whisper. His words are low, laced with sincerity. "I promise you. That timeline will never exist." 

"Someone remembers." 

"We do." 

"Someone other than us," Yuuri corrects, thinking of Emil. 

"That shouldn't be possible. Unless. . ." But Victor does not manage to finish that thought aloud. 

Shouting from the open window on the second floor, the same one his father used to throw sake bottles at demons, is his sister. Wearing her familiar headband and squinting at the two of them, she hollers, "Are you going to stand out there all day or are you going to come in?" 

With that, Yuuri jolts. Mari, his sister, looking healthy and vibrant in the staff uniform. Not a zombie, like the last time he ever saw her. "Alright, we're coming in!" 

"Good! I'm not writing a personalized invitation for you to come in! My hand hurts from wiping and fixing all the windows!" Then she slides the window shut with finality. 

"We better go in." 

"We didn't bring anything," Yuuri points out, wishing to slap his face. 

"No worries," his alpha reassures, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a bottle of Toshiya Katsuki’s favorite sake and a sealed envelope. Yuuri has no idea how that actually managed to fit into his pocket. "I think your family deserves an explanation of. . . A lot of things." With those cryptic words, he pushes the door open. "Come on." 

And so Yuuri goes, finding Vicchan quickly barking at him twice in joy. He forgoes his shoes and bends down, lavishing praise and affection over the fake toy poodle. 

Of course, if Vicchan is here, then his mother. . . She isn't in Purgatory anymore. 

His father is right by the bar, popping bottles open for guests as if he has never lived through the Apocalypse. He exchanges brief words with regulars and new guests alike with familiar ease. 

And then there's Mari, critically eyeing Victor up and down. "So. My baby brother finally deemed someone worthy enough to bring them home." A pause. "This is Victor, right?" 

Yuuri nods, gesturing towards his sister. "Victor, this is my sister, Mari. Mari, this is my mate, Victor." And in his memories, he can recall himself making this exact introduction several times over throughout the years. In Japanese, however. This is the first time ever in English. It's a little strange. 

"Huh. He's shorter than I expected." She adds nothing else to her commentary on Victor's physique. "I got most of breakfast ready but can use some help." 

"I can help," the alpha instantly says. 

"You're a guest," Mari chides in English, glaring in disapproval. "You're not helping until you're married into the family. Then we will milk you for your labor." 

"Mari, we have magic." 

"Uh huh. No excuse for laziness," Mari says, turning away and walking towards the kitchen. "Some things are best done by hand. Magic can't do it as good." 

"I'll go," Yuuri declares. "Go save a table for us." He flashes a reassuring smile and leans in, his mouth close to Victor's ear. Dropping his voice into a breathless whisper, he teases, "If you really feel bad about not helping, then you know what to do so you can help." 

With that, Yuuri follows his sister into the kitchen. He's certain Victor is staring off at the wall in a daze for a second longer than he should have been. 

"I can't believe you didn't tell us over the phone that you are pregnant," Mari says, going straight for the jugular. She seamlessly wipes clean a butcher knife and slides it back into the wooden block of knives. 

"I wasn't sure until earlier today," the witch admits, his head swiveling around as he examines the state of breakfast. Technically, it's a few days ago. Or is it a month into the future? Time travel is confusing. 

"Uh huh." 

He can't find anything to do in the kitchen. The rice has been steamed, the large pot of miso soup is being warmed. A pile of noodles are piled high on a cutting board, ready for guests' orders. There's even a basket of freshly baked bread and bagels placed on the side with a small bowl of cream cheese in the center. 

Some guests must have ordered the bread, Yuuri presumes. Usually, Yutopia serves miso soup, pork cutlet bowls, a small variety of noodle soups, and fried vegetables for breakfast. Not western food. 

"Oh, everything is done," his sister says in Japanese. "I only lured you in here so we can talk without him listening." 

The witch smiles. Mari has done this several times over. Why is he surprised by her doing this again? "He does make me happy. Even at his most ridiculous moments." 

His sister nods. "Okay." She pauses. "I want to let you know that I've seen him before in my dreams." 

"I know." 

"You do?" She raises an eyebrow. "I've never mentioned him before." 

"It's a long story." 

"Going to share it?" 

"One day." Yuuri smiles. Assuming they survive this. 

Then Yuuri's father pops his head into the kitchen. "Hey, Yuuri. I put your handsome foreigner in the dining room. Vicchan seems taken with him." He grabs a bottle of sake from the counter, head disappearing through the doorway. 

"Victor likes anything? Miso soup, rice? Katsudon?" Mari asks. 

Their father pops back in without a word, grabbing a second bottle of sake rather noisily, glass bottles knocking into each other. Then he disappears once again. 

The witch turns his head back to his sister. "Ah, he can eat anything. He doesn't have any preferences." But a flush sneaks up, dancing on the back of his neck. A traitorous thought whispers,  _ he likes eating you.  _

"Okay. Katsudon it is," she determines, gathering clean bowls into her arms. "We will give him our very best. Want to help me serve the guests? I think Father is entertaining your alpha. He’s going to try to drink him under the table." 

Yuuri snorts. It’s not like Victor can get drunk. But he nods. He will help his sister. 

Twenty minutes later, the witch finds himself seated next to Victor as his father narrates a dramatic retelling of the night he accidentally changed his slippers into frogs. According to his father, he was sleeping while casting the spell. 

"He was drunk," Mari interjects, brushing invisible lint off her uniform. "Totally drunk. Wanted to add frogs into the koi pond." 

Yuuri covers his face with his hands, his ears red. "Half the guests saw it. No one wondered why there were frogs in the banquet hall." 

"Well, everyone else was drunk," his sister points out. She smiles, pouring water for Yuuri and sake for everyone else. Then she raises her cup to Victor, her eyes unwavering from the alpha. "To our newest family member." 

They all drink to that. 

"So, Victor," Mari starts, setting down her cup. She eyes his scrubs and asks, "Doctor?" 

"Surgeon right now. I work for a hospital in Madrid, Spain." 

"How did you two meet?" Yuuri's father asks, pouring more sake for Victor. "Yuuri wasn't forthcoming on this."

The witch thinks back. The very first time he met Victor in this life was in South Korea. But the first time he remembered him was in Madrid, right when Yuuri was pretending to be a doctor Victor knew in order to interrogate him. It's not the most romantic of first meetings, Yuuri knows. He has watched far too many romantic comedies with Phichit to know exactly what is cute. 

Victor answers, "In Madrid, actually. Yuuri was in the same restaurant I was at." 

Well, that is the truth. But there's so much left unsaid, and omission is perhaps easier than the whole truth. 

"Are you a witch?" Mari inquires. "You don't quite have the aura, but it does feel like you're not human." 

Despite the inherent interrogative nature of the question, the alpha smiles. "I'm an angel." 

Without missing a beat, Mari spits out her sake back into her cup. "What," she says flatly. She turns to Yuuri. In Japanese, she demands, "Is he pulling my leg or is he really telling the truth?" 

"He's telling the truth," Yuuri replies. In the exact same moment, Victor is also speaking in Japanese and says, "I'm not lying." 

The angel clears his throat. "I'm not lying at all. I can bypass the international borders, because I don't actually teleport. I fly. I have wings. I have siblings who are also angels." 

Mari squints. "Wings?" Her dark eyes zoom in, finding nothing sprouting from Victor's back. "I don't see anything." 

"It's in another plane. Metaphysical." 

"But not spiritual?"

Victor shakes his head. "I'm not spiritual." 

"An angel isn't spiritual?" 

Yuuri's father cuts in, pouring sake for his daughter. "No more philosophy," he chides, adjusting his glasses. "More sake, more drinking, more eating." With that, he rises slightly to prepare sizable portions of Yuuri's favorite dish, katsudon. 

With the bowl in front of him, Yuuri whispers under his breath. "Itadakimasu." 

Conversation flows easier after that. His sister asks a few questions that aren't as invasive. Victor relays stories about patients and doctors in the Emergency Room. He easily charms Toshiya with the bottle of sake he brought, and really, that is the most that needs to be done, but then Victor offers to show Yuuri's father his personal collection of wines in Matsuura. 

Mari is a little more difficult. She's suspicious of Victor but not openly so. She nods in approval at Victor's gift for her, four tickets in the VIP section with backstage access to see some boyband she likes. 

Then eventually, Toshiya leaves to take care of the guests. And at nine o'clock, Mari stands up from the table, taking her leave to clean up the banquet hall and to take Vicchan out for his daily walk. 

And finally, they're alone. At last. 

Victor takes them to the kitchen, washing the dirty plates by hand. Suddenly, he speaks, "We traveled back a month. Right as Lucifer and Michael were fighting." A pause. "I don't know what changes for the timeline I've helped bring upon, but. . . I want you to help me. Make it better than what it was before." 

Silence. 

But Yuuri can't help but smile at his alpha's words. "I think I have a plan." He pauses and explains that War has given him his sword before their time travel back into the past. And throughout it all, Yuuri can't help but watch him, relieved that Victor merely looks thoughtful. Receptive. 

"Yes, that will work." A pause. "I think that is the best shot we have at ending the Apocalypse before it can truly happen. That will set the demons back for hundreds of years. Maybe even for a millennium, if Chris successfully roots out and kills any of Lilith's followers." 

"Do you know where Famine and Pestilence is?" 

"I do." He suddenly winces, as if reminded of something horrible. "But they will not be pleased to see me." 

"I'll help. I can mediate," the witch immediately offers.

* * *

The very next day, Yuuri calls in sick for the second time ever as Victor flies him to the City of Love. He can almost see Eiffel Tower. Maybe. 

"Paris?" Yuuri squints at the distance, narrowing his eyes at the tall structure, appearing as if penetrating the very sky. 

"Yes, she is currently in Paris, but Famine will be changing her home to India by the end of the week," the alpha informs. He points to an expensive-looking apartment complex across the street. "She always has the best floor." 

"You're not coming in with me?" 

"She. . ." Victor searches for the correct words. "Let's just say that she begged me to do something about the Apocalypse several months ago, and I turned her down. She will not be pleased to see my face, and she might turn me down just to make it even." 

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. "Is the same thing going to happen when we go after Pestilence?" 

"For Pestilence, we're going to need Chris, who I'm going to fetch while you're with Famine." 

Befuddled, the witch wonders, "Why do we need Chris for Pestilence?" 

"They used to date." 

Yuuri quirks his eyebrow. "I still don't see it." 

"He works for the World Health Organization, and he's not going to do anything that isn't work or Chris," the alpha informs. "That's why." 

"Pestilence works for the World Health Organization?" The witch repeats, horrified by that prospect. He thought he might work for a military somewhere in the world, developing horrible biological weapons. Not working to actively prevent diseases and outbreaks, to shut down diseases such as polio and tuberculosis. 

It's strange how War is honest about what he does. 

It's as ironic as Death working as a successful surgeon now that Yuuri thinks about it. So he inquires, "So what does Famine do for a living?"

Victor taps his chin, thoughtfully. "Well, last time she had a job, it was as a model in New York back in the eighties. I don't think she has taken a job since then." 

"Is there anything I should know about her before I go in?" The witch questions, tilting his head. "Is she murder happy? Is she like anything like War?" 

"War is not murder happy," Victor says, frowning at that. "He does what needs to be done and nothing more. Famine, on the other hand, is. . . How do you say it?" The alpha taps at his chin, searching for the correct word. "She lives for a party. But it's important for you to know that she's a vampire." 

Yuuri stares at him for a moment. That actually fits. A vampire, eternally famished for blood. "Anything else? Does she have a nest of vampires?" 

"She doesn't have many vampires at her residence the last time I've visited. That was ten years ago. It is usually her and her current. . ." A pause. "Companion. There may be a human assistant who supplies her blood and materials. Ask for Anya when you see the doorman." 

The witch gives another hard look at the building, a sense of familiarity surrounding that name. "Am I going to be eaten by her?" 

"Witches can't be eaten by vampires unless they want to be poisoned," Victor points out. 

He turns his head, giving the other man a pointed look. 

"No, I don't think she will kill you. She's more interested in talking, so be pleasant." He pauses briefly, "In case anything goes south, pray to me."

Silence. 

Then the witch inquires, "Is getting Chris going to be difficult?" 

"He is living right under Lucifer's nose and will not be happy to see me. I'm afraid I will have to take a detour to his favorite shop in New York before he even talks to me." Looking away, he admits, "I have to make up for. . . This is Chris' words. 'Assholish personality regarding the Apocalypse.'" 

Yuuri nods, absorbing his words and trying not to laugh. He kind of expects that, because Phichit said something similar, something along the lines of Chris being upset that Victor leaves him on read. Then after an exhale of his breath, the witch makes his way across the street. He finds a doorman reading a newspaper. Slowly making his way up to the desk, he switches on his translation spell and asks, "Hello. I'm here to visit Anya." 

That's when it hits him. Anya, vampire. Georgi once dated an older vampire named Anya decades ago and still isn't over her to this day. Yuuri spent weeks trying to exorcise Georgi's troubles and his monologue. 

He has evidently not done it well enough. 

The doorman flips to another page in his newspaper. "Eleventh floor." His hand lazily gestures towards the elevators. 

As he listens to soft classical music in the elevator, he forces himself to recall everything Georgi has ever said about Anya. It's sadly not that difficult, because Yuuri has heard it twice and Georgi has never deviated in the wording of his monologue. 

There's the one time Mila purposely triggered the vampire into the monologue. She did it as a joke to shock Leo and Guang Hong. Leo has never forgotten her for that and still has the recording of Georgi's dry tears on his phone. He spent two days hacking into Mila's phone to change every single one of her photos and videos into the video of Georgi crying. 

_ “Anya, why do you do this to me? Anya, why did you leave me? Anya, I love you so, so, so much. Your midnight black hair, your chocolate brown eyes, your beautiful red lips. Oh, Anya, where are you?”  _

It gets more explicit after that, and Yuuri thinks Anya is quite intelligent to leave Georgi. For one thing, they've been over for decades and he still isn't over her. It seems rather clear to Yuuri that she simply does not want him anymore. 

The elevator opens with a soft ding, the music pausing. Yuuri steps out, blinking as he realizes he's in the parlour of someone's home. In fact, there is a woman, pale in her cheeks and red in her lips, petting a fat black cat in her lap. She reminds Yuuri of Audrey Hepburn in the casual loose style of her hair and the little black dress she wears.

She raises an eyebrow at him, gesturing to the loveseat in front of her. "Please take a seat." 

Yuuri breathes in from his mouth. It's not that it smells like garbage or decay, but the entire room distantly tastes of blood and not in a pleasant way. As if someone or someones bled out on the floor recently and the janitor did a poor job with the bleach and couldn't remove the scent, leaving a disturbing invisible stain in the air. 

"Tea?" She pours for Yuuri first without waiting for a response, the tiny cup placed on the coffee table. Then she draws her own cup from a second teapot, the kettle pouring reddish-brown liquid. "I didn't expect company today, so I couldn't restock on the cookies." 

"That's alright," Yuuri says, managing a few words. He sits across from her, his eyes never leaving the vampire. He doesn't dare touch the cup. "I'm Yuuri." 

"I know." She sips from her tea. "Victor texted me." A pause. "I'm glad he didn't show his face here. I would have done something rash and idiotic if he did. I don't beg, and he turned me down the one time I begged." Her nose is upturned in disgust. 

The witch doesn't know what to say to that. Then he remembers what Victor said. 

_ She's more interested in talking, so be pleasant. _

Well, he has never perfected his social graces, but he can start with the small things. "So you've known Victor for a long time?" 

"All the Horsemen have known Victor for a long time," she corrects, flicking her black hair over her shoulder. "Since the beginning. Not quite the beginning of everything. Beginning of humanity. War is the youngest of us." 

"And Victor is the oldest."

She inclines her head. "Pestilence and I do not know which one of us is older. I don't remember ever existing without him and vice versa. But that is the small things that don't matter anymore." She returns to the black cat, purring out of response. 

"The scales. . ." Yuuri searches for the correct words. "It is part of a key." 

"Yes," she confirms. "With a little bit of transformative magic, the scythe, the sword, the scales, and the bow will become a key that will open the cage that once housed Lucifer." She stares at him, not moving. 

"I have the sword. . ." 

"Hmm. War never mentioned entrusting the weapon to you." She leans back into the couch, her dark eyes searching Yuuri as if examining the witch's body for answers that may be written in the very fabric of his coat. 

"Can I borrow the scales?" The witch asks, attempting the direct approach. 

Anya, instead of answering, returns with her own question. "You, like every other being on this planet, carry many scents. Traces of other people and hints about your life. Like what you've eaten for breakfast or who you met a few days ago." 

"Yes?" Yuuri, though he doesn't see where this conversation is going, remains patient. 

"You smell like Victor and something else. . . Something that combines you and him together," she muses, scratching the cat behind the ears. 

"Yes, I'm pregnant." 

"Congratulations," she instantly replies, as if she is congratulating Yuuri on a job well done. "He despaired about the two of you never having kids. Because he's afraid that someone may end up killing them or you." 

"I know." 

Anya releases the cat, leaning towards the witch. "If the Apocalypse carries on, you, Victor, your child can live in peace in Heaven." She frowns and adds, "But if it doesn't, then you will have a large target on your back." 

Yuuri's eyes widen, surprised. "Why are you telling me this? You do want the Apocalypse to not happen. Right?" 

"I don't want the Apocalypse," she agrees. "But I feel bad and I understand that Victor is taking an incredibly large gamble right now. Because if the Apocalypse doesn't happen, then you will always be watching your back and your child's back for the rest of your lives. You must understand this." 

"I do." And Yuuri does. But he's confident and he believes in Victor. And he knows from personal experience that the Apocalypse must not happen. It must not fall through. 

The vampire nods, sitting back into the couch. In a lighter tone, she casually notes, "You have met with Georgi often enough for there to be a trace of his scent on you." 

After a slight moment of hesitation, the witch informs, "I work with him." 

She winces at that. "I remember when he used to work for the Tsarist government as a pencil pusher. He had an unique way with words that didn't quite fit into the world of bureaucracy, you see." 

The witch smiles at that. "Yes. He still has a penchant for writing dramatic turns of phrase in his reports." 

"I'm curious. Is he still not over me?" 

"Umm. . ." Yuuri wishes a more intelligent answer came out of his month. 

"That would be a no," she concludes, sighing in disappointment. "Georgi is the reason I don't date young vampires anymore. They're too young, too impressionable." 

"He was around forty years old when he met you," Yuuri points out. 

She snorts. "Only ten years old." At the shocked expression on Yuuri's face, she explains, "He had already been turned by then, but he was only a vampire for less than ten years." With great authority in her tone, she reasons, "Any vampire who needs to count their human years for their age is compensating for something." 

Yuuri nods. He's certain it's more of a matter of perspective, but he's not going to argue semantics with her. 

"He would be a hundred and twenty-three today," she muses. "I lost contact with him after he sent excessively long telegrams. Every single one cost a small fortune, especially on his salary, yet he sent them anyway. He sent quite a few angry telegrams about the hockey player I was dating at that time." 

"He. . ." He starts awkwardly, unable to find any words to finish the sentence. He still cares for Anya? He still loves her? All of that is obvious, but he's not here to help Georgi and his love problem. He's here to get the scales. 

She smiles. Kindly, she says, "I know he's your coworker and maybe even a friend, but I'm not touching him with a ten foot pole. That ship has sailed a long time ago, and it saddens me a little that he hasn't learned to let go. Anyway, I'll give you the scales. Sandra?" 

Another vampire appears from a doorway, only wearing a rainbow bikini. She looks almost like a California beach girl with wavy blonde hair, only lacking a surfboard. With a bronze scale in her hands, similar to the one carried by Lady Justice in front of courthouses, she gently hands it over to the witch. "Be careful." 

The witch takes it with both hands. It's surprisingly lighter than it looks. He slips it inside his coat, the same pocket containing War's sword. 

"Yuuri, this is Sandra. She's been with me for. . ." Anya glances up at the ceiling, as if the answers are written in between the light bulbs. 

"Seven years," the vampire answers. "Turned right before the gold rush in California. I've known Anya for fifteen years." 

"What did you do?" Yuuri asks politely, slightly relaxed now that he has the scales. 

"I was a seamstress originally. Changed jobs a lot to keep up with the modern times. No one needs a seamstress anymore." A pause. "My favorite job was museum art director. Now, that was a great job." 

"It's how I met Sandra." Anya smiles at the other vampire. 

"Which is why it's my favorite job." 

Yuuri spends a few more minutes being polite and making small conversations. It's not until Sandra reminds Anya about the opera they need to attend later when Yuuri seizes on the moment to leave. 

Across the street, Victor is waiting for him. His arms are filled with shopping bags of various logos. Expensive logos. Yuuri thinks he recognizes a few designers. 

"Is that all for Chris?" The witch asks, shocked. Victor is probably carrying five thousand dollars worth of merchandise. "He has expensive taste." 

"He doesn't like anything on the clearance rack unless it's his favorite flavor of lube," the alpha explains. The bags crinkle until Victor finally frees his hand. "Come on, he's in Los Angeles right now." 

Yuuri takes it, and he shuts his eyes as the surroundings blend in a mesh of colors. Two seconds later, he feels incredibly wet in the face, as if a water balloon has exploded inches from his nose. The witch carefully opens his eyes, retrieving a tissue paper from his pocket to wipe off the offending liquid. 

"That's just unfair. You bring your mate here as cannon fodder," Chris complains, holding a hot pink water balloon in his hand. 

"Would you have lobbed water balloons if I did tell you?" Victor inquires. 

"Of course not," he instantly answers, looking offended at that question. "It's you who I have problems with. Not your lovely, beautiful mate." He sets the balloon down in a bowl of water balloons and turns to Yuuri. "I'm really sorry about that." 

"It's okay," the witch replies, snapping his finger. The water instantly dries, disappearing from his hair. "It's only water, right?" 

"Yep," the demon says, nodding. "I was aiming for his rather large forehead but missed badly. I’m ashamed of myself. It’s such a huge target." 

The witch ignores his alpha's loud, offended gasp. He dives straight to business, releasing Victor's hand and spinning around slightly to review his surroundings. Expensive apartment, extensive array of flower arrangements. Ugly paintings of people's faces in various expressions on the walls. "So Chris, you know Pestilence?" 

"Who?" 

"He means Masumi," Victor cuts in, setting down the bags.

“Oh.” Chris sits down in his armchair. “Oh.” 

Oh? 

With nothing else better to do, Yuuri sits down on a loveseat sofa with Victor. He leans forward, clasping his hands together as he examines the demon. “How did you meet Masumi then?" 

"Lovely party on a yacht owned by the last Tsar of Russia," Chrid answers, smiling. "I mean. I did end up selling a contract to a communist who wanted him off the throne, but he knew how to party like his head was not on the chopping block. But it was Masumi who stole my breath away, and I mean it literally, because he actually knocked me over. Almost overboard." There's a faint dreamy quality on the demon's face. 

Victor interjects, "We need you to make contact with him." 

"Why can't you?" Chris wonders aloud. "You know him. You have his phone number." 

"I. . ." The alpha glanced away, staring off to the side. "I might have said something and he didn't like what I said and then he blocked me." 

"Yeah, well, everyone was trying to tell you that you shouldn't be all for the Apocalypse. Anya, me, Masumi, a couple of others," the demon says, muttering and shaking his head in exasperation. He runs his hands together. "So he totally blocked you?" 

"Magically. And blocked my number," Victor says glumly. "He was very upset." 

Chris nods. "Okay, I will make contact with him, but you write down an apology to him. I'll deliver the apology, and Yuuri can request whatever you want to request." 

The alpha nods. "Okay." 

"And you should write apology letters and gifts to everyone. Because you were being an ass regarding the Apocalypse," Chris informs, telling it straight to Victor's face without missing a single beat. He pulls out his phone. "In the meanwhile, I must inform my minions that I will not be able to attend the monthly orgy today." 

Yuuri blinks, shutting his mouth. That is not something he expected to come out of the demon's mouth. 

Chris, unaware of Yuuri's shock, continues murmuring his to-do list under his breath. "Gotta get the big boy happy. Hmm, maybe put Samantha in the firing zone as his personal assistant. Hope she gets smited. . ." He rapidly texts, his thumbs quickly darting across the phone screen. "Masumi, Masumi. . . J, K, L. . . Ah. Here we are." 

The witch turns his head, glancing at Victor. 

The alpha's eyebrows scrunch in concentration as he pens a note on the coffee table. He is not writing in English but rather in flowing Japanese that has Yuuri struggling to not inch forward to peek. The witch has never realized that his alpha possessed beautiful handwriting, his kanji curved and stylized elegantly. 

It makes Yuuri feel as if he's a monkey taking a pen to a paper. 

Then Victor signs with a flourish, his breath gently blowing over the glittered blue ink. "It's done." 

"Great," Chris says, not looking up from his phone. "He just texted me back, saying he's in Taiwan right now. He's working from home, but he does have a bit of time to kill. I'll text you the address, Victor. You can Google it." 

The alpha whips out his phone, narrowing his eyes at the screen. "I know where that is. Are we ready?" 

The demon discreetly sniffs himself. Then he nods. "Ready." 

"Ready," echoes Yuuri, standing up from the seat. He takes his alpha's hand, Chris grabbing the other one. And then he's suddenly getting a faceful of wind, cars honking as they pass by. 

"Letter?" Chris holds out his hand. 

"Here." The alpha hands it to the demon. "Do you want me to just wait outside?" 

"Yep. He's still mad." 

After a brief moment of hesitation, Yuuri releases Victor's hand and sneaks one look back at his alpha as he follows Chris into an apartment building. He murmurs a polite greeting in Mandarin at a suspicious neighbor, who doesn't say anything upon noticing Chris pushing the bottom for the fifteenth floor. 

"What is Masumi like?" Yuuri asks aloud in English, glancing away from the neighbor. 

"He's a quiet person. Not an easy guy to piss off, which is what Victor managed to do. I'm almost impressed," Chris says, scratching his chin. He puts on a pair of glasses, black at the rim. "But he's sweet. Never complained about the times I keep leaving bloody clothes in the laundry without washing for a few days. Hydrogen peroxide saved our relationship many times over." 

"You're not together anymore, are you?" 

"No. We parted ways a few decades ago but remain on good terms," the demon answers, watching the numbers blink higher and higher and higher. "We, unfortunately, had different goals in life. Incompatible goals, unfortunately." The elevator opens on the fifteenth floor. 

The witch doesn't ask any further. 

Chris strangely bends down at the door. Then knocking on the door, he announces, "Knock, knock. It's me." 

The front door opens. Sitting in front of them is a brown werewolf, resting on its hindquarters. Its chocolate brown eyes stare briefly at them, and with a small crack, the werewolf shifts into a man with identical brown hair. He appears distantly Asian, as if mixed. "Well. Come in then." 

"How did you manage to open the door as a werewolf?" Yuuri wonders aloud. 

"With my mouth." 

The witch quietly resolves to not touch the doorknob. Any doorknobs in the apartment for that matter. He would rather not imagine how Masumi managed to turn the knob with his mouth in werewolf form. 

"This is a letter from Victor," the demon informs, handing the folded sheet of paper to the werewolf. "It's your choice if you want to read it or not." 

Masumi makes a face, but he accepts the letter anyway. "What a dick. What did it take for him to convince you to deliver this?" He skims over the letter, running his finger over the words with a wrinkle in his nose. 

"I actually told him to write it." 

Pestilence raises an eyebrow. "Alright. But last thing you texted me before today was a very dramatic, all caps text that said and I quote this, 'Friendship over. Totally over. Head stuck up his ass so high, he can see the back of his teeth and give a four-lipped blowjob.' Quite memorable. I was laughing for days." 

"Ten bottles of lube, the newest riding crop, the entire designer lingerie line of this season, so many shoes, and a nice gift card to my favorite shop in New York City. But the most important thing is a century old bottle of white wine from France. Thought there weren't any left." 

The werewolf snorts. "I can't believe you sold out for a bottle of wine and lube." But there's no spice of malice in his tone, just fondness. "According to this letter he wrote, he asks me to grant his mate's request." He turns to Yuuri. "From the way you smell, that would be you." 

"I'm sorry we had to meet under such terrible circumstances," the witch starts. Hopefully, Pestilence and his ire will stick to Victor. 

"Clearly, he's the better half of the pair," Masumi comments, inclining his head towards Yuuri. "No need. I already know what you are about to ask for. Anya texted me, and War is ignoring our texts instead of answering why he didn't tell us he gave you the sword. I don't know if it's on purpose or if he's trying to egg someone into world domination." 

"Does that happen often?" 

"Oh, yes," the werewolf confirms, nodding. "Lots of people dream of ruling the entire world, but few have the means, the drive, and the resources to do it. And the luck as well. He whispered into Napoleon's ears while the man was still exiled from France." 

Chris hums in agreement. "You have no idea how many politicians try to sell me their souls and firstborn in their desire to rule the world. It's too big of a request that is worth far more than a soul." 

People are awful, Yuuri concludes. 

The werewolf turns his attention back to the witch. "You have two out of four weapons, correct?" 

"Yes." 

"Victor will need to hand his weapon over, but it shouldn't be too hard to ask," the werewolf notes. "I have my bow in here." He bends down and reaches for a large box from beneath the wooden coffee table. He places it on the table, opening the box with ease. 

"Uh, there is no bow," Chris says, frowning. "There's only tissue paper in the box. Were you robbed, Masumi?" 

Yuuri peers into the box, gazing at the glowing bronze bow within. No arrows to be seen. It's strange that he can see the weapons of the Four Horsemen, but Chris and others can't see a thing. "It's in there," Yuuri reassures. "I can see it." 

The demon squints into the box. Then he raises an eyebrow. "Is this some sort of magic thing?" 

"More like a mate thing," Masumi explains, lifting the bow out of the box. "There's a lot of privileges that come with being Victor's mate. And a lot of disadvantages." 

Yuuri blinks. He's not certain of what these privileges even are, but if it helps him see the weapons used by the Four Horsemen, he'll take it. He reaches for the bow, placing it into his pocket, the same one containing the scales and the sword. He nods at the werewolf. "Thank you." 

"Wait. Hang on." Chris waves his hands at both of them in confusion. "Why exactly does Yuuri need the bow and this sword?" 

"The weapons of the Four Horsemen," Masumi clarifies. "Combined with a touch of magic, they make a key that can open Lucifer's prison." 

"But Lucifer is free," the demon points out, confused. 

"He can be put back in." 

The werewolf nod in agreement. "He can be put back into the cage. Then the demons will have start the process all over, the seals, the deaths, the sacrifice of the oldest demon. . ." 

"Oh." Chris blinks, thumbing his lip thoughtfully. "That would actually set the demons back for at least five hundred years. Especially with Lilith dead. . . Well, unless the Princes of Hell get freed. They would be the oldest demons after her. Some of them, anyway." 

"Some?" 

"Some are fallen angels, according to the rumors," the demon explains. "But they are all dedicated to Lucifer. Loyal." 

Yuuri racks his brain. Didn't Lucifer break them out of prison just a few hours before coming for Yurio? In fact, that is what Otabek noticed while they were talking behind Lilia's ballet studio. The princes were freed and then he and the demons came for Yurio. 

So how could they prevent Lucifer from freeing them? And could they even do that? 

The witch loses himself in his own thoughts, scenarios playing through his eyes. Can they even trick Lucifer into somehow going for Yurio first and then intercept him before he possesses the teenager? 

"Yuuri?" 

"Yes?" Yuuri turns towards Chris. "Sorry. . . I was planning." 

The demon nods. "Victor is waiting for us. Let's go." Then to Masumi, he asks hopefully, "There will be one day that I show you my new edible lube collection?" 

The werewolf smiles. "Assuming we survive the Apocalypse, you can do much more than that." 

Chris grins at his words. Standing up, he walks with Yuuri to the front door. He has no reservations about touching the doorknob and fiddling with the locks. He bids farewell as he leaves. 

The witch waves goodbye. 

Victor is indeed waiting for them on the sidewalk right by passing cars and pedestrians. Wearing a simple tracksuit, he inquires, “Ready now?”

“Take me back to L.A.” 

“Sure. Yuuri? A hotel in Chicago?" 

"Matsuura. I want to go home."

* * *

At home, Yuuri finds himself staring at the pristine bedroom. Every inch hasn't been destroyed by Lucifer. Not yet anyway. He turns his gaze away before he lets his thoughts linger too long about the future. 

"The sword, the bow, the scales," the alpha says, noting the weapons laying on their bed. Victor holds out his hand, a black thin weapon suddenly appearing out of thin air. "And now, the scythe." He lowers it carefully on the bed. 

Yuuri represses a shiver. Out of all the weapons, it is the scythe that reeks of the most power. He raises his hand, about to cast. "Wait. Does it matter about the size or appearance of the key?" 

"No. It can be as large as the key to a city," Victor answers. "It only needs to be in the shape of a key." 

The witch nods. Quietly, he admits, "Maybe Mari should do this. She is way better at transformative magic than I am." 

"Oh, she is," his alpha instantly remarks, his hand resting on Yuuri's shoulder, warm and reassuring. Steady like a rock. "But you are just as capable of transformative magic. Don't overthink it. Just do it." 

And Yuuri shuts his eyes, breathing in. A key. Doesn't matter what size, doesn't matter what shape. It must be a key. He raises his hands over the four weapons, and he feels Victor wrapping himself around him. He burrows himself deeper into his alpha's arms, the very heat and touch of his alpha soothing away his nerves. 

Then Yuuri casts. Four weapons, one key. A key. He has a vision of it in his mind's eye. A bit old-fashioned. Larger than a house key. Bronze in coloring. 

"You did it." 

The witch opens his eyes. Resting on the bed, glittering innocently, is a single key. There's a fashionable pale blue gemstone locked by the bow of the key. It's a bit larger than Yuuri's smartphone, but it's a key. It worked. The witch doesn't dare touch it, however. "How does it open Lucifer's cage?" 

"You have to drop it on the ground," Victor explains. "Then something has to go into the cage or else it won't close." 

"How do we even get Lucifer into the cage?"

* * *

The next day, Yuuri and Victor walks up the steps to the Plisetsky's house. It's exactly three days before the Interpol team will actually find them. The angel rings the doorbell, his hand diving into the pocket of his windbreaker as he roots for something. 

"What are you looking for?" Yuuri wonders, baffled. 

"Hope," he answers, his word cryptic. 

The door opens. Yurio squints at them, his hair in a messy ponytail. He looks angry as usual, but nonetheless, the witch is glad to see him free of Lucifer's possession. For now, anyway. He rudely barks, "What do you want?" 

Victor jolts, surprised by the rude tone. "Is. . ." He pauses and then turns to Yuuri. "What is Selaphiel's name?" 

"Otabek Altin." 

"Whatever you're trying to sell, he's not buying. He only has eyes for the newest sleek model of some ninja motorcycle." 

"Yura," a voice says, coming from behind the teenager. "I know who they are. That's my younger brother." 

The door opens wider. 

"One of those brothers. . ." Yurio's voice trails off. "Like an angel brother?" 

"Yes." Otabek's eyes flick between Victor and Yuuri. "Come in." 

Yurio doesn't budge, a temporary line of defense. "Aren't angels dicks?" 

"Just let them in," the archangel says. "I imagine they have something important to say." 

They settle in the living room. Victor and Yuuri share the loveseat while a cat lazily sits on the couch, stretching her limbs. Yurio plops down in an armchair while Otabek sits on the floor, cross-legged. 

"Here." The alpha tosses something round and shiny and small at the archangel. "This is yours." 

Otabek catches the ring with ease. His eyes widen in surprise as he examines it. "I didn't even realize I lost this." 

"What is that?" 

"Hope," the archangel answers, turning to the teenager. "It's hope." 

"Huh. Why would hope look like a ring?" 

"Hope looks like a lot of things," the archangel patiently explains. "It means different things to different people. Sometimes, it's a doll. Sometimes, it's something that isn't tangible or physical. Sometimes, it's a used stamp representing an Olympic dream." A pause as he faces his younger brother. "Your mark disappeared. Thank you." 

Victor shakes his head. Gently, he tells him, "The curse did happen. I didn't remove it." 

Otabek blinks, his expression stoic. "What does that mean?" 

"I had a change of heart." A pause and then Victor explains, "The curse did happen. I oversaw it pass, because the curse is tied to me. When I reversed time, the curse did not reverse itself." 

"Still. Thank you." 

Yurio, utterly confused, scowls. "Okay, what is this curse shit?" 

"I'll tell you it later," the archangel promises. "It's a long story." Without missing a beat, he turns to them and inquires, "So why do you come here today?" 

"I turned the clock," Victor answers, leaning forward. "Lucifer is going to raze this world. Starting monday. We don't have that much time." 

The archangel sharply inhales. "By how much time did you jump?" 

"Over a month." 

"With Yuuri?" 

"Yes," the reaper confirms. 

Otabek folds his hands in front of him, tilting his head in confusion. "Then why do you come here? What do you need?" 

"Bait." 


	11. Revelations II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home by Gabrielle Aplin
> 
> Firebird Suite: Finale by Igor Stravinsky

"We only have three days to be ready for Lucifer," Yuuri says, reminding Yurio for the second time. The teenager looks about ready to slap the witch in a bit of rage mixed with a grouchy brand of annoyance, but he holds back because of "the precious cargo," which makes the witch feel like an airplane carrying neatly-packed shipments rather than an omega with a growing baby. Yurio's words, not Yuuri's. 

"I know!" The teenager hisses, pulling his blonde hair into a ponytail. He wipes the perspiration at his temple, looking as if he ran a marathon. "I fucking know! The entire fucking planet depends on me doing this thing right!" 

"Not exactly," Otabek says, his face stoic. He, unlike Yurio, isn't even breaking out in sweat. "Victor and I discussed this, but it is possible for you to be possessed by Lucifer while we work on throwing you both into the cage. You don't have to take control of your body." 

"That's not going to happen," the teenager declares, his cheeks red from exhaustion and the remains of hot-headed anger. "I'm going to kick this son of a bitch so hard that he's going to regret the moment I said yes. He's going to hate the thought of taking another human vessel for an eternity." 

Though Yurio and Yuuri interjected occasionally into the conversation earlier, Victor and Otabek both agreed that the best way of defeating Lucifer is for Yurio to be possessed by Lucifer and then for someone to activate the key to throw both of them into the cage. This has the beneficial side effect of freeing Lucifer's vessel before he is completely deteriorated under the weight of Lucifer's true form. Once Lucifer and Yurio are imprisoned, Yurio, who is human and doesn't possess the form of an archangel, will find it easy to slip through the cage's holes. It's decided that Victor would be the one to get him, not Otabek. 

"He likes to chat with me," the archangel explained, two hours ago. "While he talks, he will run an illusion of some sorts while I'm distracted. Victor can slip in and out without him noticing." 

Back in the present, Yurio wipes the sweat off his face. He grouchily turns his head at the archangel and berates, "How am I supposed to find it in me to kick his ass while he's in my head? I can't do anything to you when you're possessing me!" 

Otabek only looks thoughtful, his legs crossed as he leans against his large bean bag chair. "You have spent sixteen years in your head. You're the only one who knows it better than anyone else. Better than Lucifer. Better than me." 

Yurio only scowls, crossing his arms. He declares, "I'm going to drown myself in ice cream. Don't mind me while I take this break." With that, he hobbles out Otabek's room and shuffles downstairs. "I never a nice pint of fucking black cherry ice cream." 

"If Yurio can't fight off Lucifer's possession, then we will have to force him through the cage. It's not going to be easy," the archangel says, once Yurio has loudly opened the freezer. Otabek pauses, his eyes turning towards Yuuri. "I want to thank you for convincing Victor to fight against the Apocalypse." 

"I didn't do anything," the witch instantly says. "Not yet." It's not over until Lucifer is firmly imprisoned, locked away in his cage. 

"You have already done more than what anyone else can do," the archangel replies. His eyes flick downwards, as if peering straight into the ball of cells growing inside the witch. "And congratulations." 

Yuuri pauses, uncertain of himself. Did this version of Otabek care about Heaven's orders or has he turned a new leaf like the old version? Faintly, he asks, "You're not going to carry out Heaven's order?" 

The archangel shakes his head. Echoing what he told Yuuri in another time and place, "I have a line of worse offenses. One more won't hurt." A pause. "Your child will be born in less than three months." 

The witch smiles. "I know." 

"Would you like to know the gender?" 

He shakes his head, still unable to stop himself from grinning. "No, but I have names picked out." And though the weight of the Apocalypse leans on his shoulders, for the first time in a long time, Yuuri feels nothing but content.

* * *

That very night in Matsuura finds Yuuri and Victor in the kitchen, washing the dishes and pots together with Makkachin weaving around their legs, sweetly begging for scraps of duck legs and chunks of bacon, her charm cranked up to eleven. The witch catches Victor sneaking her pieces of mango, the fake poodle gleefully gobbling up each bite. Makkachin prefers meat, but she can and will eat anything. Yuuri's sneakers, the ones he bought from Hasetsu, are missing their shoelaces. Just the shoelaces. She has strangely left the aglets behind. 

When Victor disappears to find another bottle of dishwashing soap, Yuuri grabs the plate of leftover sausage and places it softly on the wooden floor. He pets the poodle, his hands running through her shiny brown fur as she eats. "You won't eat the baby crib I'm ordering from the internet, right? Not when I feed you all the sausages." 

Makkachin pauses, whining. Then she continues eating, licking the sides of the plate for every drop. Once finished, she flops onto the kitchen floor, spreading out her limbs like an oversized thick rug. 

With a wave of his hand, Yuuri sends the plate to the sink, right when Victor returns and stares at the scene. 

"Makkachin, are you alright?" 

She boofs. 

"You're just going to lay here? Do you need me to carry you to the doggy bed?" 

She boofs again. 

The alpha looks up, smiling. "I guess she wants to lie there until she feels like moving again." 

"Makka, you have five minutes. Then we're mopping the floor," the witch informs, rising from the sleepy dog. He steps over her limbs, careful not to step on her tail. Yuuri knows he has done that before in the past, thankfully not in this life, and every time he accidentally steps on her tail, Makkachin has an overblown dramatic whining for the next two hours as if Yuuri amputated her and burned all the leftovers in the fridge. This is why he sometimes likes Vicchan better. He's more forgiving that way. 

"I think the room next to the bathroom is perfect for a crib," Victor says, clearly having overheard Yuuri's words to Makkachin. "Close proximity to the sink, plenty of room for a crib and a twin-sized bed." 

"But I want two cribs," the witch says, wiping dry a clean plate. "One to put in our bedroom, the other in their room." 

"Speaking of the baby, do you want to know the gender?" 

Yuuri blinks, wondering why he's surprised Victor already knows. He shakes his head. "I think I want to be surprised. Do I need to book an appointment to see a doctor?" 

"Well. . ." Victor glances away. 

The witch narrows his eyes. It doesn't sound like Victor is worried, per se. But it does sound like the angel knows something he doesn't. "Okay, what have you done?" 

"I might have been checking up on the baby. Every once in a while," Victor admits. "I needed to check to see they're there. Growing." He holds out his hand, his fingers stretching apart to demonstrate a measure of space. "They're about this big right now." 

"The size of a grape?" Yuuri can't imagine it, this delicate small creature nestling inside of him. It's a strange sort of miracle that warms his heart. The size of a grape, as big as one of his thumbs. Half of Yuuri, half of Victor. The best of them both, he hopes. 

"A little bigger than a grape," Victor corrects, smiling broadly. "Going to be getting bigger and bigger every day. Faster than a normal baby." 

The witch knows. Oh, he knows. When he goes to the bathroom, he sometimes pulls up his shirt out of curiosity. There's a tiny pudge of flesh growing around his midsection, gaining in size. He's reminded of his years as a teenager, eating his mother's pork cutlet bowls after each successful grade scored for finals back in high school. He lost a few pounds while working for Interpol, his mother despairing over the weight loss. Working at Interpol made Yuuri keep odd hours, and he sometimes skipped a meal here and there to put all his attention and willpower into the current case. But now, this weight will be here to stay, growing a new life within him for the next almost three months. 

It's surreal. Between the Apocalypse and the time traveling and all the other things he's paid to worry about, this, by far, is the most important detail. 

But there's a small nagging worry pressing in the back of his head. His child will be a Nephilim when born. Heaven will one day come to carry out the order, placing him or her into Purgatory like all the others. How can Yuuri protect them? 

But as he watches Victor step around Makkachin to retrieve a roll of paper towels, he knows that he's not alone in this. He's not alone anymore. Victor is with him, and he will always be there for him, for both of them. 

And maybe one day. . . It will be for the three of them. Like what he saw in his dreams. The girl and the boy. 

"About the baby. . ." Victor's voice draws the witch back into reality. 

Yuuri's heart misses a beat. Is there something wrong with him or her? Has he been a bad parent already? Should he stop sneaking bites out of the black cherry ice cream whenever Makkachin and Victor aren't looking? He knows he probably should stop now that he has swallowed half a quart and left the ice cream carton half-empty, but the baby is demanding sugar. 

"I just need you to promise me that when Lucifer comes for Yuri Plisetsky, you won't get into harm's way. You would not be in the Plisetsky's house when Lucifer comes." 

Yuuri pauses at that. He can't truly promise that will happen, because he will throw himself in front of Yurio if it means protecting him. He knows that Yurio would be pissed if Yuuri was injured while protecting him, but Yuuri still has a job to do. He will defend the world as much as he could and then a little more. So he says, "I will try my best." 

The alpha nods, seemingly accepting of Yuuri's words. Then he tilts his head and notes, "Your cell phone is vibrating." 

Yuuri sets down the dish. "You can hear it from here? It's in my coat. Contained in a pocket dimension created by magic." 

"Yep. I have excellent hearing, and I have exceptional eyes. Many eyes," Victor informs. 

The witch does not ask how many eyes his alpha has. It's probably some ridiculous number that will make him question how exactly his body can possibly contain them all. Besides, he has already heard from Otabek that Victor has quite a lot. Instead, he holds out his hand, the phone flying straight towards him. He catches it with practiced ease. Unlocking it, he finds several text messages from Yurio. 

_ Can you turn me into a frog? Maybe dickless won't notice I'm a frog now _

_ Scratch that _

_ I dont wanna be a frog.  _

_ Make me into a tiger _

_ That would be could as fuck _

_ Or a cat. If you're lame _

Yuuri shakes his head, already typing at the keyboard. "Victor, if I change Yuri Plisetsky into a lemon tree, would Lucifer notice that he's a lemon tree?" 

"He's thick in his head, but he's not that thick." 

He tries not to laugh at Victor's insulting answer about the devil. Yuuri texts back,  _ I'm sorry, but Victor says it's not going to work. He will still be able to notice you.  _

A text comes nearly instantly.  _ Maybe he won't. I bet he's as dumb as rocks.  _

The witch types again.  _ Keep practicing with Otabek. You can do it! Ganba!  _

There's no texts incoming after that. Yurio has left him on read. Perhaps to sleep or perhaps to ignore him. Yuuri hopes it's the former. He knows that it won't be easy to get a good night's worth of sleep. Not until the Apocalypse has passed, buried deeply into the ground that it won't resurface again, not for another thousand years.

* * *

"You've been quiet all night," Victor comments, shrugging off his jacket. "Want to tell me what has been on your mind?" 

"The Princes of Hell." Yuuri pauses, "I've been spending a lot of time thinking about the old timeline and what I remember of it. On Monday, before Lucifer threw Emil and me into Purgatory, he broke the Princes of Hell out of their prison and then gave final orders to the Four Horsemen. Then he kickstarted the Apocalypse." 

"Yes?" 

"How dangerous are they?" 

"Very. They make Chris look like a newborn demon," his alpha answers. "Chris, who has been around for over a thousand years. They were angels. One is an archangel, one of my forgotten brothers. A lot of them used to belong to a group of angels called the Watchers, who used to be tasked to. . . Watch humanity before they fell." 

"How do we prevent them from getting free?" 

The alpha taps his chin. "I think the simplest answer is that you move up the schedule. Monday afternoon is when he's expected to break them free. If we take that into account, then the latest we can lure Lucifer to Chicago would be Monday morning. It's doable, but. . ." 

"But what?" Yuuri narrows his eyes. 

"Lucifer's vessel. If you want to give a better chance of survival to the vessel, then Lucifer needs to get out of that body soon. Or else he's going to die. He's not capable of containing Lucifer for a long time, not in the same way Yurio is." 

Yuuri isn’t certain how it will fly over Yurio’s head when he learns of this. The witch believes the vessel is worth saving, but will Yurio be ready before then? He adjusts the pillow on the bed, crawling underneath the blankets. When Victor’s arms securely wrap around the witch, Yuuri feels his thoughts wash away temporarily. This isn’t something he can do. This is in Yurio’s hands, and it's his decision, his body, his choice, and with that, he quickly falls asleep.

* * *

Saturday finds Yuuri sitting outside with Otabek and Yurio in the backyard. Yurio's cat lounges underneath the rose bushes, her eyes closed under the thrall of an afternoon nap. The witch is surprised she didn't wake up from the teenager's constant shrieking. They've already been called out by the old neighbor, who is at least in her seventies and half-deaf, to stop making loud bird noises. 

After calmly listening to a barrage of curse words from the teenager and quietly wondering if that is a future he may expect one day with his children, Yuuri asks, "Hey, doesn't your grandfather tell you off for cussing so much?" 

Yurio plops down into the grass, burying his face into the neatly cut strands and ignoring Otabek casually sitting in the lawn chair. "Nah, he says worse shit in Russian. Plus, Otabek doesn't even notice whenever I curse." 

"I do notice. I ignore it," the archangel interjects, merely looking thoughtful. He runs his thumb over his phone screen, his eyes glancing at Yurio. "I think I know what is stopping you from fighting possession, Yura." 

"Hah?" Yurio raises his head. "There is something stopping me?" 

"Motivation." 

"I think trying to prevent Lucifer from taking over the world and burning it down into ashes is enough motivation," the teenager points out, pouting as he folds his arms over his chest.

"Not really. To fight Lucifer, you must realize it's personal. You must believe in this cause in your very soul. You must realize in yourself that there's something out there worth fighting for, worth fighting Lucifer for. The prevention of the Apocalypse isn't something close enough to your heart. You must look deeper." 

The angry blonde inhales deeply, as if to argue against the archangel. But then he breathes out, as if thinking better of it. "What the fuck is even close to my heart? I'm fucking sixteen, and who the hell knows themselves?" 

"You have two days," Otabek merely says, typing at his phone. "I think I should cancel tomorrow's show, because we need all the practice time we can get." 

"Fuck no," Yurio instantly replies, his eyes bulging in horror. "That show is going to net you five hundred bucks." 

"It's okay."

"You spent three months gunning for that spot. You did four auditions, and he didn't pay you for any of it when he had you do half an hour at the club," the teenager insists. "The boss isn't going to be happy to hear you're stepping out for a night on the day before." 

"I already canceled it." 

"Beka," Yurio protests. 

"It's fine. There will be other times, and besides. . ." He looks away from his phone screen. "You're more important." 

Yurio has no words for that. 

"One day." 

"Hah?" Yurio blurts out, swiveling his head to Yuuri. "What do you mean one day?" 

"Victor thinks we should move up the time table. He's concerned that even with celestial help, Lucifer's current vessel will not be able to survive if he is freed on Monday. Plus, it will prevent Lucifer from unleashing the Princes of Hell into the world." 

"Like tomorrow?" 

"Yes." 

Yurio closes his eyes, his head bowed. "How the hell did this old geezer even get himself possessed by the devil in the first place?" 

"Either he was manipulated into saying yes," answers Otabek. "Or he might have been tortured into giving his consent." 

"That's not really consent." 

"That's how it works." 

"That's bonkers. Yes does not mean yes when you got a gun pointed at you." 

The witch thinks back to the old timeline, back when Nikolai Plisetsky ended up being Lucifer's vessel before Yurio gave his consent to the devil. Did they torture Nikolai Plisetsky so they can shove Lucifer down his throat? Or did they trick him, promising that they only wanted him and that his grandson wouldn't be harmed? 

It doesn't matter now. That timeline, that event, will not happen. It will never happen again, not under Yuuri's watch. 

Yurio sighs and then pushes himself up from the grass. With Potya following him into the house, he hollers back, "I need a fucking ice cream. Anyone else want some before I eat them all?"

* * *

Mickey climbs out of the surveillance van, dressed in blue overalls like any ordinary and stereotypical technician from the local electric company. He picks up a bucket of black paint, specifically created by some guy in the research department to blend in with asphalt. It's great for hiding traps for demons in plain sight. "I'm impressed you found Plisetsky by going through church's donor list." 

"We were lucky," Phichit says, casually letting his hamster down to the street. "Typically, they don't let us see their records. We only had to cross-reference them against the local DMV records." 

It wasn't easy to get those records, but it's a certified link between the church that caught Nikolai Plisetsky's face on camera to Plisetsky's new identity. Yakov hates it whenever Yuuri cites dream magic as the reason he gets answers, so they had to pull hard evidence to get the wheels turning. 

"According to my source, we got until tomorrow afternoon when the devil breaks open the prison for his creepier henchmen and turns all of his attention to finding his vessel. The demons have additional orders to bring Nikolai Plisetsky in alive at all cost." 

It's difficult to convince Yurio to actually want to do it today. In the afternoon, to be exact. Chris is supposed to drop a suggestion to Lucifer to stop by Chicago before he goes to free his fellow fallen angels. Hopefully, with the timing, the world wouldn't be too affected by the small bang the Apocalypse will have as it fizzes out. The witch shudders at the thought of fallen angels and archangels on the loose. 

"It's easy to set up traps, but Yakov still hasn't heard back from the local law enforcement, who can provide him the backup," Mickey comments, spraying the streets. "But Leo said that the local hunter community is responding to him, so they should be on alert. Too bad we didn’t get more time. Could have brought in the bigger guns." He hurriedly completes the sigil, moving onto the next section of asphalt. 

“What sort of bigger guns?” Phichit wonders. 

“A few more witches. Some hunters specialized in demons. A few vampires, if it gets dark enough for them or if a few witches cast a weather spell. Werewolves, for certain,” Mickey says. “They could have brought in some other specialists, you know. A few other supernatural creatures who could handle the demons better than us. Like maybe a pagan god.” 

“I would pay big money to see Dionysus choke a few demons with his grapevines,” Phichit says, crackling at that thought and reaching into his pocket to pull out a bottle of spray paint. He shoves aside a trash can and begins painting a sigil in its vacant spot next to the mailbox. “I wonder if he ever decided to stop running a liquor store out of the middle of nowhere.” 

Yuuri sets down a decorative rock and spray paint bottle, glancing over at Phichit. “He was working in Florida.” 

“Yeah, in the middle of nowhere.” Phichit huffs as he pushes the trash can back to its original spot, hiding the demon trap. 

The witch shakes his head. He doesn't consider Florida as the middle of nowhere, and he will not comment how he suspects the Greek god of wine occasionally moonlights as Florida Man, because that will open up a long discussion they do not need to have. Putting the spray paint can into his pocket, he approaches the Plisetsky's front door and knocks. "Mr. Plisetsky, are you here?" 

The door opens, and Yurio himself grimaces. "He's taking a shower right now, but he is ready to go. He got a suitcase packed, and he will carry the cat carrier." 

"Great," says the witch. 

"Promise me that you will keep him safe," the teenager says, staring at him hard. "Promise me. I don't want whatever happened in the old timeline to happen to him in this one." 

"I swear." 

Yurio nods. Then he forces the front door wider, pushing out a black suitcase. He steps forward, allowing Mickey to go in to set up surveillance cameras. He glances around, his eyes locked on Phichit on the other side of the street. Then he mutters something under his breath.

"What?" 

"Tell the old man that if everything fails, he gotta go back in time to try to fix it again. Otherwise, if I'm still alive, I will go to tear what's left of his hair out." 

It takes a second for Yuuri to connect the dots. "He will. He will try again." And regarding this, Yuuri feels certain. 

Yurio nods. 

"One more thing," the witch starts, reaching into his coat. He pulls out a key, the same key made from the weapons of the Four Horsemen. Originally, he thought to hand it to Victor, because he's not going to be close to Lucifer, but he feels that Yurio needs it more. "I entrust this to you." 

Pale, the teenager stares at the old-fashioned key. "Dude, that should go to your mate. Not to me. I'm going to be abused as a condom for an archangel, and there is no way that I can do anything with the key. I haven't even figured out how to fight off Otabek when he was possessing me. How can I do anything with Lucifer?" 

"Yurio," the witch says, his voice steady. He places the key into the teenager's hoodie, dropping it into his pocket. With a quick spell cast over it to ensure it won't fall out if Yurio ever decides to do a backflip or something like that, Yuuri continues, "I believe in you. Otabek is right that you must make it personal. The reason for you to fight Lucifer must be close to your heart." 

Yurio narrows his eyes suspiciously, but he doesn't make any motion towards the key in his pocket. He does not hand it back to the witch. "Do you. . . Do you actually know the reason?" 

"I have the beginnings of an idea of one," the witch admits. "You will probably sock me for saying it if I wasn't pregnant." 

The teenager's eyes are mere slits. "Okay, what is it?" 

"World-saving is too abstract of a concept for you. You must dive deep to look for something close to home. Something close to your heart, because it's not the world that truly matters to you but rather who you love." With that, Yuuri turns his head towards the sound of the front door opening. He nods respectfully at the older man. "Mr. Plisetsky, are you ready to go?" 

"Please," laughs the teenager's grandfather, adjusting the straps of his backpack. Potya meows from her cat carrier. "It's Nikolai. Or Nick, if you prefer something more American. I'm ready now." He turns to his grandson and says, drawing the teenager into a warm hug, "I only wish that I can help you in this battle." 

Yurio murmurs something in Russian and then pulls back. With that, he watches as Yuuri and his grandfather walk to a makeshift sigil at the end of the driveway, the suitcase rolling itself behind them. He receives a wave from his grandfather, Otabek standing right behind his shoulder. 

With that, Yuuri holds out his hand to the Russian man. "Please hold on." 

Nikolai pauses, his fingers stretching towards the witch. "Should I close my eyes? I heard some stories about magical teleportation." 

"Feel free to. It's less disorienting that way," Yuuri answers, offering a kind smile. He pulls his magic together, disappearing from the Plisetsky's property without another word. They arrive at a safe house outside of Chicago, Mila waving at them from the darkened window of the barn beneath the shadow of an overgrown oak tree. 

The vampire, carefully moving to not be in the direct rays of sunlight, opens the front door with a cheerful grin. "Welcome to the safe house in the middle of nowhere." 

"We're still in Illinois. It's not the middle of nowhere," Yuuri points out, beckoning Nikolai in. "We got the surveillance cameras online yet?" 

"Mickey is still setting up. Kinda weird to have him out in the field instead of me," the vampire says, shutting the door behind Nikolai. "Anyway, I got everything set up in the kitchen." A pause. "Mr. Plisetsky, would you like to drink anything? Eat?" 

"I brought some food from home," the man replies, smiling warmly. "Am I allowed to watch the cameras?" 

Mila raises an eyebrow at Yuuri. With no negative answer from the witch, she nods. "It shouldn't be a problem." They make a turn around the corner, finding a kitchen island crowded with silver weapons including a large crossbow and a water gun filled with holy water. The vampire has mounted several monitors onto the wall, static playing on most of the screens. A keyboard has been set up on the dining table. "Grab some chairs from somewhere. Or summon them." 

Two minutes after they've settled down in the safe house, Nikolai sits quietly in the back as Yuuri leans in to see the monitors better, adjusting his glasses. There are six monitors, and two of them are affixed to traffic camera footage. He recognizes the street. It's the one that leads directly towards the Plisetsky's residential neighborhood. "Are you running license plates?" 

"Not me. The software is," Mila says, adjusting her swiveling chair. "Looking for vehicles that aren't supposed to be there. Out of state, that sort of thing. I'm watching the sidewalks to see if they're coming in on foot." 

Yuuri wishes he remembers more of the other timeline. He has no idea how the demons managed to get here in the first place. "We are going to have these monitors linked to the house?" 

"Yeah, inside the house. Once Mickey gets them all set up. He's probably busy with the traps and stuff." 

"Agent Katsuki," Nikolai says, his voice soft. "Do you mind if I eat a snack here?" 

"Not at all," the vampire cheerfully replies, clicking a mouse as she screens pictures of cars and pickup trucks. "This is an unofficial safe house that has seen much worse than bread crumbs on the floor." 

It's once the monitors are linked up to the cameras inside of Nikolai's house when the man speaks again. Out of surprise, he notes, "That's my living room!" 

More than just the living room. Mickey has set cameras in the kitchen, the hallway, the front door, the garage. . . Mila flicks through each camera and then redirects back to the living room, returning to the small gathering of people waiting around a coffee table. 

Yuuri's heart skips a beat. Though Yurio and Otabek are sitting right in the center of the camera's sight, his eyes are focused on the black suit somewhat off to the side. He can recognize those hands anywhere, even when sable gloves cover them so. Victor is there. He's there and waiting. 

The witch holds his knuckle to his lips, eyes not leaving the monitor. He mentally thinks,  _ good luck, love.  _ And he hopes that Victor has heard every single word. 

The alpha glances towards the camera and smiles. Without hesitation, he blows a subtle kiss. 

Yuuri blushes, and he glances around, wondering if anyone noticed the exchange. Nikolai is busy with a bag of pretzels while Mila guzzles down a flask of blood that may or may not be mixed with vodka. He pulls out his phone, temptation probing at him. He wants to text Victor, but at the same time, he wants his alpha to have his full attention right where it needs to be. So he clears his throat and asks, "Mila, did Yakov manage to get the extra manpower?" 

"Sort of," she says. "Some of them are already here but not in the neighborhood while others are a good hour drive away." The vampire zooms in on a picture of a plumber's van. "Hmm, Mr. Plisetsky, does this plumber operate in this area?" 

"Yes, I've seen it around. Family-owned." 

"Okay," she hums, tapping away at the keyboard. "He doesn't have a genuine plumbing license recognized by any plumbing associations. Does he do cash only?" 

"Yes." 

Mila moves onto the next photograph, her eyes narrowing at the monitor. "Ice cream comes by frequently?" 

"Not in a while?" 

"Kinda odd for it to be there in this chilly weather. Especially when it's not even summer," she comments. "Let's see where it's going." She pulls up live traffic footage, watching the ice cream truck pausing for a red light. Then it turns right, going off the main road and into the residential area, the same neighbor the Plisetsky family lives. Mila shoves in an earbud and says, "Mickey, ice cream truck coming your way. I'm not getting a hit in the DMV database." 

"I see it," the werewolf confirms over the radio, his voice statically buzzing from the speakers. "Leo, can you intercept it?" 

"Yeah," replies the hunter. "I gotta turn the car around." 

Mila hits a few keys, syncing up the comms. She adjusts her earbud and leans in. "I also see a delivery truck coming in. Not registered. Plates are fake." 

"White truck?" 

"Yes," the vampire confirms. 

The witch watches as the said van parks at the corner, its taillights still visible from the traffic camera's view. Three people exit out of the van from the back, wearing casual street wear. Nothing that looks like the typical delivery driver attire. One of them sharpens a hunting knife and shoves it down his pants. 

"Okay, that's definitely not delivery," the vampire says, tapping away at the keyboard. "Guang Hong, intercept them, you're the closest." 

The hunter radios back. "Should I take them out?" 

"No, stall." 

"Copy that. They're armed and dangerous." 

Glancing at the monitor, the witch spies a lone figure dressed in the typical slacker teen wear with ripped pants and a baseball cap worn backward. Guang Hong wields an orange water gun in his arm, though the weapon is pointed downwards. He shares a small conversation with the demons, who appear to be growing increasingly agitated with every passing second. 

At a sudden thud, the witch returns his gaze to the other monitor, the one streaming in the live footage of Nikolai's living room. He watches as Emil stands between everyone and the door, the exact same motions as before. He holds his breath as Lucifer calls out to them in an affable manner. No one, not even for a second, believes it's from the solar company. 

Then Lucifer breaks down the front door, and one of the cameras goes black, fizzling out in a burst of white static. 

"Mila," the witch breathes, his fingers curling into his palms. "Switch over to the living room." 

"Yeah, hang on." She manipulates the arrow keys, switching feeds until she finds the living room. "Where did the archangel go?" 

It's a good question. 

Otabek is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Victor. Instead, Emil gets tossed into the kitchen, breaking the pantry's door. Phichit is thrown out through the patio, and Yuuri hopes neither of them are seriously hurt. 

Through the camera, Lucifer says, stepping closer and closer to Yurio in his decaying vessel, his eyes disturbingly sunken in their sockets, "You and I can rebuild the world, you see. I only need your help. You only need to say yes." 

Yurio pauses at that, his eyes flicking towards the camera. But he shuts his eyes and inquires, "Is it going to hurt?" 

"No. It will be like going to sleep," the devil lies. "You only need to say yes. And none of your friends get hurt." 

“None of them?”

The witch flashes back to his memories of the old timeline. It sounds amazingly similar to what the old Lucifer said to Yurio a long, long time ago. And like the old timeline, the same thing happens. Almost perfectly, so. 

The only difference?

Yuuri isn’t in danger. 

“Yes,” Yurio confirms, glancing away from Lucifer. 

Then Yuuri has to look away, for a bright glow of white light shines blindingly so. He glances back when the light finally dims, and there, Lucifer holds Emil by the neck as he crushes him against the wall. Lucifer’s old vessel lies on his back on Nikolai’s rug, barely breathing but unconscious. 

Lucifer appears as if he’s speaking only to himself. “You care for this man. I suppose he can live for another day. Since you have been so agreeable today." He casually drops the Nephilim onto the dusty floor, the FBI agent falling to the ground like a ragdoll. He turns around, taking a moment to glance into a crooked mirror. He strangely fixes Yurio’s blonde hair, tucking a strand behind the teenager’s ear. 

Emil slowly rises, recovering faster than Yuuri in the old timeline. With a hard look in his eyes, he calls out, “Hello, father.” A single black sword appears in his hand, as if a shadow has hardened out of thin air. 

Yurio, or rather Lucifer, slowly turns around. In a very strange manner that is unlike the teenager, he tilts his head. "Curious. I thought you were dead. Killed by Gabriel, right?" 

"I'm back now." 

"Come to serve again?" 

There's no hesitation in the Nephilim's voice. "Not now. Not ever again. Not for you." 

"I could have given you a place in the new world," the devil murmurs, taking a step towards his son. The smile on Yurio's face is sinister, a smile that belongs to Pennywise rather than the teenager himself. "All you had to do was deliver our enemies' broken wings." 

"Yours." 

Lucifer shakes his head. 

"Your enemies. Not mine." With that, he backs up into the hallway, two angels approaching the devil. "I've chosen my place a long time ago, father." His eyes briefly glances over to Phichit, who is magically dragging Lucifer’s vessel out through the patio door. 

Lucifer scowls at Otabek and Victor, sneering at them both. "Selaphiel." He peers at Victor, frowning sharply. "You. Have you come to watch as you always do? This seems too close to the battle. Especially for you." 

"I didn't come to watch." 

With that, Otabek wordlessly pulls out his sword, magically slipping into his hand. "Yura, fight him." 

"Oh, little brother. There is no Yuri Plisetsky home right now." 

With that, the archangel steps forward. It's a movement that reminds the witch of another time, where Otabek stepped back when the devil approached. 

There's a flash of a black shadow before camera feed turns into static. Mila is already hitting her keyboard hard, as if she could magically bring back the camera online all these kilometers away. "Holy fuck," she curses. She grabs her earbud and asks, "Mickey, do you see the house?" 

"Up in a dusty kaboom. No fire," the werewolf replies back in between huffs. He grunts, and then there's the sound of a car alarm going off. Mickey curses in Italian, his words muffled. 

Mila sighs in frustration and shakes her head. "He can call us when he has more information. Team Gemini, come in, please."

There's no answer from the speaker. 

"Maybe busy," the vampire suggests, though she does not seem to believe her own words. She, like Yuuri, thinks the local law enforcement team of supernatural officers may have been ripped to pieces by the demons. 

A part of Yuuri wonders if they should have contacted the local churches to see if they had any exorcists available. It's too late to consider that avenue now. The witch stares at the static, the snow of white and black falling on the monitors, his mind racing. There has to be something they can do. Right now, Lucifer is fighting both Otabek and Victor, destroying the Plisetsky's house in their battle. Maybe Emil and Phichit are helping them, or maybe they're running in the opposite direction. 

There is nothing Yuuri can physically do. He only succeeded in slowing down Lucifer's process in the original timeline. But there is someone else who can actually do something, who was supposed to do something. They have spent days trying to teach him how to throw off possession, though he didn't master the skill. 

Yurio. 

He needs a reminder of what he loves. 

With that thought, Yuuri dials the phone number to the Plisetsky's landline. It rings over and over again, no one picking up. It might have been destroyed. He places it on speakerphone and turns to the vampire. "Mila, anyone responding to you?" 

"Nope. I think they're all busy," the vampire replies, pointing to the live traffic cam footage. Swarms of demons are intermixed with supernatural hunters. A second later, some sort of dark protective is thrown straight at the camera, the screen going instantly black. Clicking away at the keyboard, Mila says, "Well, gentlemen. I think I've lost all vision I had in this situation. Cameras are either destroyed or the connection went bad." 

"No one is picking up," Yuuri hurriedly informs, hitting the end button. "We need to get back in there." 

"Hang on, Yuuri. You're pregnant. If we survive this, Yakov is going to have your head." 

The witch is about to respond when there's a sudden searing flare of pain at his wrist. He hisses in shock, his fingers pulling up the sleeve to find nothing. He blinks, his vision swimming. Then he sees— 

_ “Why did you interfere?” His brother asks, the corner of his mouth bloody. He wields a smile sharply, a dangerous curve in his lips, not unlike a butcher's knife.  _

_ Victor doesn't answer, simply clutching at his torn sleeve, his eyes scanning the shattered remains of the house, the overturned photographs and the TV with a hand-sized hole in its screen. In a mere moment, the wound on his forearm seals itself. Not even an archangel's sword can fell him, and Lucifer knows it too. Without the scythe, he can't kill Lucifer. And Lucifer can't kill him. No weapon except for the scythe can kill the Angel of Death.  _

_ But his older brother, the one who does not possess the same immunity Victor has, only needs to be stabbed once by Lucifer's blade in order to die.  _

_ "Yura, you are better than him. Fight him,” Otabek pants, pushing the fallen bookshelf off. He slowly rises, his blade dripping with Lucifer’s blood.  _

_ "No one is better than me," the devil hisses. Then he lunges at the Archangel of Hope, the pointed end gleaming as time slows down.  _

_ Victor merely approaches, and with a simple push at Lucifer's wrist, the blade misses Otabek completely, penetrating the bricks of the fireplace as if it's merely putty.  _

_ Spinning around, Lucifer roars in rage. "You and your filthy time tricks!"  _

_ "Where's the key?" The archangel shouts at Victor, recovering quickly. He bends down and swipes at the devil's feet, missing by a mere centimeter.  _

_ Lucifer dances away, his eyes narrowing.  _

—and Yuuri reels back, his eyes widening at the black monitor screens. His glances over to Mila, who cocks her head at him in concern. 

"Is something wrong?" She asks. 

"You got a transmitter or a long-range radio?" He inquires, ignoring her question. 

"Yeah, but I don't know how that is going to help us. No one is answering their phones, and we heard nothing from the local police station. I think there's like a force field or something like that. Something blocking us from—"

The witch shakes his head. "No, they're not able to pick up, because they're fighting demons. Radios still work. I'm certain of it. But I'm not sure about the cell phone towers." He has to hope one of the devices work.

Because he is running out of options. 

"Yuuri, what are you planning?" 

The witch opens a metal briefcase leaning against the wall, searching for the radios. He finds something even better than two-way radios. Two satellite phones. He raises one and inquires, "Mila, is this secured?" 

"Of course, standard issue. Upgraded encryptions in 2019. But what are you planning?" 

"Teleporting myself back into the fight." 

"Yuuti, Yakov will have my head. You're pregnant!" The vampire protests. 

"It's a stalemate right now. I need Nikolai to speak to his grandson or else he can't fight off Lucifer's possession." 

"Send me." 

"Mila, you'll be incinerated by the sun." 

"Fine." Mila clicks on the monitor and pulls up satellite imaging, zooming into the suburbans. "Let me check where's a safe place you can drop off." She scans the mess of fire and heat indicators, frowning. "Okay, the section around the Plisetsky's house is empty of demons, but you gotta make sure they don't notice you." 

"Understood," Yuuri says, holding a satellite phone in his hand and dialing the other phone. When the call connects, he offers the phone to Yurio's grandfather. "When I teleport there, talk to your grandson. I'll tell you when." 

Hesitating, Nikolai protests, "Wouldn't it be better if I go with you?" 

"Your grandson will kill me if I put you in danger. Not to mention my boss at Interpol. No civilians in danger and all that stuff." The witch smiles, displaying more confidence than he actually feels. "Just do what I say. This will be over sooner than you think." 

The man nods, not saying anything more, yet his hand shakes, trembling. 

Yuuri slips his hand into his pocket, drawing the transportation sigil on the dusty floorboards. The chalk catches, and in a whirlwind of colors, the shattered debris of what remains to be the Plisetsky's house rises before him. The nearby homes also face the same catastrophe. 

The witch turns, finding Yurio glowing softly on the front lawn and grimacing at Victor, who floats next to an overgrown oak tree, celestial power casting a golden glimmer of light over him. Yuuri hasn't been noticed yet, thankfully. Whispering, he speaks into the satellite phone, "Nikolai, are you here?" 

"Da." 

"I'm putting you on speakerphone." Yuuri hits the button and adds a small spell to the phone, enhancing the volume. He needs to make sure the teenager can hear. 

"We can do this forever," Lucifer thunders, stomping on pieces of roof shingles towards Victor. "You should have not interfered." 

"Yurio!" Yuuri shouts. "Fight him!" 

Lucifer turns, his face turning into a splotchy shade of red. "Ah, your lover has come to play, Azrael. What do you say about that?" 

"Yuuri, get out of here!" His alpha screams. In a blink of an eye, he's suddenly standing in front of Yuuri, a body shield for the witch. 

"Yura," Nikolai says, his voice mostly calm with a pinch of worry. "Fight him. You are more than a vessel. Remind yourself why you fight." 

"There is no Yuri Plisetsky! He is dead!" But Lucifer is twitching, his eyebrows spasming like a seizure patient. 

"Yura, you can do this." 

"Once I'm through with them, I'm coming for you!" Lucifer shrieks, his voice changing mid-sentence, the pitch rising to a very teenager-like tone. A touch of attitude, the brand of disrespect that makes the middle finger look polite. 

"Yura, you know your mind better than he does." 

Lucifer closes his eyes, glowing ominously white. 

From the shattered remains of windows and drywall, Otabek lifts his bloodied head. He mouths a word. He stumbles, as if injured but thankfully still alive. 

Yuuri thinks the word is  _ Yura.  _

"That's right. I do know it better than he does," Yurio says, pulling the key from his pocket. Without further ado, he drops it onto the grass, a black portal opening underneath his very feet. 

The last thing Yuuri sees of the teenager is his white checkered shoes and a brilliant white flash of light. He looks away, shielding his eyes until the light dies away. Then the witch moves, pushing passed Victor to find a key winking innocently on the scorched grass. 

Not a single sign of Yurio. 

"Yuuri," his alpha says. He pauses, as if finding not a single word to say. 

"Is he gone?" Yuuri asks, after a moment. 

"Yes." Victor holds out his hand, the key suddenly appearing into his palm. Then he shakes his head and says, "You didn't have to put yourself in danger." 

"I had to help." His words come out in a rush, breathless. 

The angel nods, a small smile playing at his lips. In a rush, he asks, “Do you want to move in? Permanently?” 

The witch laughs. “Victor, we’re putting in a crib in the master bedroom and knocking down a few walls to make more room for the house and we’ve talked about marriage before. I think it’s a little late to ask that question.” 

“But are you?”

“Yes,” Yuuri answers, utterly sincere. “I’m never leaving you again.”

* * *

In the aftermath of the flash of light disappearing into the earth, the demons seem to stop fighting, as if suddenly aware that something has severely changed, as if the very foundation of reality has shifted. One demon with the disturbing vessel of a young girl appearing in her early teens dares to approach the wreckage of the Plisetsky’s house. 

The witch stiffens, prepared to blast her into pieces. 

But no, she doesn't do anything. She looks down at the defining crack in the front yard and says weakly, "Lucifer is gone." 

With a loud crack, Chris suddenly appears in a black suit, his hair perfectly coiffed in a way that makes him look sleazy, the vibe of a used car salesman smiling through him. He makes a shoo shoo motion at the demons, and with that, they all disappear, better than a magician's trick. 

"Chris, what's going on?" Phichit wonders, stepping forward. 

"Oh, just a power vacuum," he casually explains, as if discussing the average quality of a coffee cup. "With Lucifer gone, there's a new King of Hell in town." He tips an invisible hat at them with a grin. "New job title, new privileges, new powers. Lots of things to change down under. Adieu." With those parting words, he disappears with a crack, melting away into thin air. 

The Thai witch stares into that air. "I don't know whether to be happy or terrified that he's the new King of Hell." 

"From what I heard of him. . ." Otabek's voice fades away, and he turns away from the street, disappearing back to the house, stepping over the fallen wooden frame. 

"Where's he going?" 

"Otabek," Yuuri calls out, following the archangel back to the Plisetsky's house. He carefully steps over the broken glass. "Are you alright?" 

"Lucifer did do some physical damage to me, but I should be in perfect condition in a few weeks," answers the archangel. He bends down and picks up fallen picture frames. "In the meanwhile, I should try to clean this mess before Nikolai comes. He's not going to be happy to see the condition of his fruit trees." 

But before Yuuri could clarify his question, he spies light bending out of the corner of his eyes. He turns, facing the pale figure. 

A man dressed in a white tracksuit suddenly appears in the front yard, stalking forward towards Otabek. He narrows his dark eyes. "Selaphiel, what have you done? The Apocalypse needs to happen." 

Otabek lifts his head up, rising from his bent posture. The archangel stands still, not even budging from his place. "I did what needed to be done." 

Yuuri glances around, his eyes searching for Victor, but the alpha is nowhere to be found. Instead, he finds Emil and half of the Interpol team gathered around on the sidewalk and fielding concerns from the locals. He raises his hand at the intruder. "Stop. Who are you?" 

"Witch, you have no business here," the man says, scowling as if Yuuri kicked his dog and stepped on its tail. "You should leave now." 

"That is Michael," Otabek says, gesturing to the intruder. "He is my oldest brother." 

"Adopted?" Mickey questions, his fingers on his gun as he glances suspiciously at the archangel. The werewolf looks as if he's been wrestling in mud. But he has no severe injuries that the witch can see. "You two don't look anything alike." 

"Victor is also my brother. My younger brother." 

The werewolf narrows his eyes. "A Chinese dude is brothers with two guys who don't look alike?" 

"Enough of this. Where is the Nameless? He needs to reopen Lucifer's cage now," Michael says, clearly done with this conversation. His feet shift weight from one foot to another, as if he's preparing himself mentally for a fight. "Or else." 

Victor suddenly appears by the squashed rose bushes with Yurio glumly held by the collar of his shirt. Stoic like a statue carved from marble with a permanent expression, the angel informs, "I'm not doing anything." 

The very air seems to crackle with electricity between the three angels staring at each other. Michael glares at Victor and Otabek while they carefully examine Michael, wary of the first move. They could have stayed in that position forever, if it isn't for a voice. 

"Uncle," Emil says, his eyes on the archangel. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small. . . Scroll? "I bring a message to you." 

The archangel's eyes barely move away from Otabek and Victor. "Nephilim," Michael coldly notes, making no motion towards the scroll the Nephilim offers to him. "How did you get out of Purgatory?" 

"It wasn't any archangels nor was it the Angel of Death," Emil answers. "It was something else, something greater than the archangels." 

Michael's expression only changes slightly, his eyes narrowing impeccably. Without another word, he encloses his fingers around the scroll, eyes flicking downwards to skim the words written. His face falls, almost as if out of disappointment. He lifts his head, eyes returning to Emil. "I will have to think about this." 

"It's not something you can spend time to think about," Emil insists. "It's an order from the Creator." 

"Creator what?" Phichit says aloud. "Like a book?" 

"Of the universe," the archangel says, clearly annoyed by the questioning. "You tell the other Nephilims that we will slowly release them from Purgatory." He snaps his finger, and for the lack of any better word, Emil  _ dissolves  _ into mist. 

Yuuri, without thinking, steps forward. "What have you done to him?" 

"Nothing. He has only been returned to Purgatory," the archangel says, clutching the scroll in his hand. "I suppose there will be some restructuring required to release the Nephilims back to earth. They will need someone to guide them in this new world." He narrows his eyes, scanning over the Interpol team until he finds the witch. "Yuuri Katsuki." 

"Uh, yes?" 

"One of the names suggested is you," the archangel says. "Do you accept?" 

"Me?" Yuuri blinks, his mind racing. Him to guide the Nephilims? He wants to turn it down, but then he pauses, a realization striking him. He thinks of his child and future children, suddenly understanding that there will be a day where he will be guiding a few Nephilims. His own children. And Victor will be with him every step of the way. He asks, "Will Victor be allowed to help me?" 

"I'm certain he will find a way to help even if I forbid it,” Michael dryly remarks, raising an eyebrow. "Do you accept? And you must understand this, Yuuri Katsuki, that this is not a decision you can take likely. This decision will affect not just this life but also the next lives for as long as Nephilims need you." 

"Yes," the witch answers without hesitation. He can do this for this life, the next life, and the life after that one. He can do it as long he has Victor by his side.

* * *

"This is too much," the other witch whines, adjusting his hamster around his neck. "We started working at Interpol together, and now. . . Wow, you're mated, you have a spawn coming—” 

"Don't call my baby a spawn," Yuuri interrupts, rolling his eyes. "It's not a spawn. You sound like Yurio." 

"Fine, crotch spawn." 

"You read too much stuff on the internet," the witch declares, placing his belongings into a cardboard box. "You really have to stop Twitter or Instagram or whatever you're on now." 

"Pft." A pause. "Really, this is overwhelming, you know. You're retiring—”

"Technically, I'm changing jobs," he corrects. Last night, a dozen or so Nephilims showed up in Matsuura, ruining date night with Victor. It seems like his job to guide the Nephilims will be starting sooner than he originally thought. The bureaucracy in Heaven isn't as slow as Interpol's. Emil has informed him that there will be several waves of Nephilims arriving on earth. It's an interesting process, but it should provide Yuuri a bit of breathing room. 

"Yakov is retiring," Phichit says, throwing himself into the witch's old desk chair. "Emil is transferring in from the FBI, and we have Yakov's boss supervising us until they get someone new. I mean, it's kinda weird that they will be keeping us in a team instead of splitting off like we used to." 

Despite quitting, Yuuri still feels a flash of concern. "Maybe it's because there's a big case?" 

"I didn't hear anything like that through the grapevine, but who knows?" Phichit shrugs. "Tomorrow's problem, I guess." 

"Good luck." 

"Oh, no. I'm going to drag you in for translation help whenever I need it." 

"What happened to Kenji?" 

"You haven't heard?" 

"No?" Did something bad happen to the younger witch? Yuuri hoped that Kenji lost his strong tendency to act before he thinks, because sometimes, it gets him into trouble. Like the one time he cast a spell on a house he thought was the perpetrator's. Kenji was in the wrong block, and it was lucky the homeowners did not notice the spell. 

"He's transferring into the team to replace you," Phichit says, lowering his voice. "He is pretty sad that he didn't get to see you."

"Oh." Yuuri smiles. "Then you're in good hands." 

"Well, he still needs to do better in the field, but he's a whiz at research." 

“I’m sure he will learn. He doesn’t have enough experience.” 

A pause as Yuuri takes down his name from the door. With the two boxes floating behind him, he walks out of his office, closing this chapter in his life. He’s making his way downstairs when Phichit asks him another question. 

“So other than retirement—”

“New job.” 

Phichit laughs. “It’s kinda both, isn’t it? I mean, at least, you don’t have to write up reports and fill in all the paperwork. You were complaining about it all the time to Yakov.” 

“It was not all the time. It was maybe one time.”

“Maybe two.” 

“Maybe one and a half. Technically, the second time was to Georgi.” 

"Okay, that makes sense." Phichit pauses by the front door and wipes away a dry tear. "I'm going to miss you, you know." 

"Phichit," Yuuri dryly says. "I'm not having a funeral, and we are going to the ballet show for Yurio at the local university." The teenager threw an envelope of tickets worth twenty-five bucks each as a thank you to the Interpol team for not letting his grandfather get kidnapped by demons. He looked grumpy while doing it, which made Yuuri wonder if Nikolai put Yurio up to that. 

The other witch ignores that. "It's a changing world. I'm going to miss you big time. I might actually have to do work instead of hanging around your office." 

"Yeah, right," the witch snorts. "I heard you've been talking too much with Leo and Guang Hong. The supervisor wasn't impressed." 

The witch suddenly throws his arms around Yuuri. "I know, I know. But it's just not the same." Then he withdraws, shaking his head. "Guess I better actually get my report in before I get suspected of procrastinating." 

"Yeah," Yuuri says, nodding with a smile. "I will see you next Saturday." 

"See you." A pause, and then he shouts gleefully, "I bring honey popcorn!" 

* * *

"I see congratulations are in order," says the former prima ballerina, her heels a dead giveaway as she approaches the witch from behind. Her eyes flick over the growing bulge around Yuuri's abdomen. "He's growing quite fast. Will you be enrolling him into my ballet class for beginners?" 

"Uh, thank you!" The witch turns his head, surprised to find the ballerina approaching him. He thought she would be busy, running around to attend to the ballet and perhaps making sure the sound systems are in proper condition. "I think it's still too soon to be thinking about ballet classes." 

Lilia shrugs. "I have a long waiting list, so you should be thinking ahead." 

Well. . . It's possible to think about it. He wants to raise his children in Japan, but Victor can ferry them back and forth between Asia and America with ease. They can take classes from Lilia Baranovskaya, but they might not like ballet. Still, he nods politely at the ballerina. "I will have to think about it." 

She clicks her tongue. "Don't think too long. My waiting list is getting longer and longer every year. Now please excuse me. I must attend to my students." 

The witch's eyes follow her as she briskly walks between gathering hordes of parents eagerly trying to grab the best seats to film their children. Between those parents are also some recruiters from ballet companies, or so Yuuri has heard from Yurio. It seems that Lilia's dance studio is remarkably well-known. Then again, many of her students are quite accomplished. 

Yuuri finds his alpha in his seat, Makkachin’s chin resting on his feet. "How did you even sneak Makka in?" 

"Shhhh." Victor winks. "She said she wanted to see a real ballet show." 

The witch smiles at the dog. "I can summon another chair."

The alpha gasps in surprise, his eyes sparkling. "Makka was going to sit on my lap, but I think she would prefer to be on my lap and a chair." 

When they get home, Yuuri is going to ask himself whether or not they're spoiling Makkachin too much. The answer is going to be no. He caught Victor the other day tugging at her doggy cheeks and happily inquiring if she wanted a few siblings, which she barked enthusiastically in reply. They're probably going to spoil their children before they've even started. 

On the bright side, they will have Uncle Yurio to unspoil them. The teenager was unimpressed by Victor's unlimited credit line at the clothing store. Victor has every intention of buying a new wardrobe of clothes for each season. Yuuri is slightly afraid. But he's kind of also looking forward to it. 

"Pah," Yurio says, dressed in his practice clothes. He peers at the poodle resting on the floor. "You're not supposed to bring in a dog." 

"Hmm. It's a secret." 

The teenager squints at both of them. Then he stalks off, muttering something about the show and something else under his breath. 

"My hair is not receding," Victor whispers fiercely, staring at Yurio's retreating back. Yuuri’s slightly concerned that his alpha may accidentally, but on purpose, stick his scythe into the teenager’s back, Julius Cesar style. 

"Huh?" 

"Nothing!" The alpha flashes a smile. "Teenagers these days." 

"Careful. You blink and we will have two bratty teenagers who learned too well from Yurio quicker than you know it." 

Victor, of course, completely misses the part about their future kids picking up an attitude or perhaps typical rebellious behavior. "We are going to have two?" His eyes are ridiculously shining and sparkling, and Yuuri is falling for it, wanting to give into every single request from his alpha, his heart racing with joy. 

He can't help but think of the girl seeing her father on a bridge in Japan. He can't help but think about the boy who loves superhero movies and the girl who would rather watch Barbie. It's the kind of future he can't help but look forward to. 

"Yeah," he says, sitting down in the chair as the lights dim. Leaning close to his alpha's ears, he murmurs, "I think we might have more than two." 

There's a sharp intake of breath and a whispered gasp of his name, but the witch merely smiles and sits back in his seat, watching Lilia Baranovskaya's production of  _ The Firebird. _

* * *

Lilia Baranovskaya does not lift her head at the sound of the door opening. She continues writing down the choreography for the next ballet show, even though she has yet to see the final performance of  _ The Firebird.  _ She has withstanded Yuri Plisetsky berating her for not giving him the titular role. 

"You're going to be late for the finale," the intruder says. Lilia has heard he goes by the name of Yakov now. 

"I'm never late. The finale is simply early. Running ahead of schedule," Lilia replies, her thumb smearing her handwritten words. The blue ink disappears, fading away like magic. "I've been thinking about choreographing my own ballet. I don't feel like doing the shows I always do for years. It doesn't feel right." 

The man grunts. "What about the story of the firebird?" 

"What happens is what happens. Life goes on, and you can only grow from what you've survived. You must find your own happiness, regardless of the circumstances. And hope remains with humanity, as it should." Lilia sets down her pen. With that, she turns to her husband who she hasn't seen for two centuries. "You're not dressed properly for a ballet. Remove the hat." 

The man does not budge. "I'll remove it when we are there." He steps forward, examining a picture of former ballet students. "What will become of the Nephilims?" 

"If successful, integration. No more Purgatory for them, though some of them surprisingly chose to stay instead of returning to earth." 

"A mistake fixed." 

"Long overdue." Lilia stands up from her desk, reaching for her familiar yellow coat. "Are you ready?" 

His sigh is of exasperation. "I've been ready for hours. Waiting for you." 

She smiles. "Sorry. I've been working on an original ballet." 

"Oh? How long will it be?" 

"Oh, very long." 

**Author's Note:**

> https://discord.gg/TYMxcAB
> 
> Link good until end of 2020.


End file.
